Failed Flight of Song
by Smaug the Writing Dragon
Summary: The night of Il Muto, something the Phantom had not planned for occurs, and he is stunned speechless... Rated T for violence Updates may be irregular due to college peformance. No nice, sweet Phantom in here...
1. Not in His Plans

Not in His Plans

The stagehand scrambled away from the piercing gaze, up into the rafters and precarious catwalks above the stage. A feral snarl etched itself on the Watcher's face as he stood deep within the shadows. One swish of his cape, and he was no more than a shadow himself, disappearing into the inky blackness.

Joseph Buquet was quietly panicking. The air was oppressive here, as if it was a living force trying to squeeze the life out of him. The shadows were flickering, always in motion-what-what was that? He peered ahead of him, hurrying down the narrow, swinging catwalk. The shadows leapt out at him, cold, dark tendrils stretching out to claim his very soul. The temperature dropped several degrees. _I must be over-reacting,_ he told himself over and over. All his tales of the Phantom came to mind, and he shuddered. The gruesome details he had once so gleefully expounded now tortured his frightened mind. _…__that absence of a nose is something horrible to __see__…_

Below him, the ballerina girls twirled gracefully (most of them) onto the stage, blissfully unaware of the drama descending above. The stage became a teaming mass of people as they struggled to regain control of the situation. Buquet wanted to scream at them, to curse them, but the icy blackness had stolen his voice. He clutched at the cat walk's ropes and shivered; someone-something-else was here with him. Why had he been so stupid to go after the Phantom alone? Bravado? Curiosity? None of that mattered now.

It could not be the other stagehands; they were all below and off-stage, laughing at the unfortunate Carlotta and dallying with the chorus girls. Somewhere behind his growing panic, Buquet was envious. The stupid ghost…ruining his fun. The stagehand forced himself to think rationally. He would carefully find his way down and forget about this nonsense; he would go back to that lovely chorus girl, Darci. Ah, Darci, one fortress he would not mind conquering…

The icy presence suddenly vanished and Buquet foolishly chuckled. His mind began to wander to more pleasant thoughts. For the time being, he was alone, and his courage returned. Down the gently swaying catwalk he padded, oblivious to the pale yellow gaze following his every move. After a few glances into the dark corners, Buquet was satisfied that the ghost was gone. Mostly sure…anyway he hoped. He could not deny the feeling of terror that still lurked deep in his torso.

He tossed his scruffy head and turned around, and his blood ran cold in his veins. _Mother preserve me,_ he thought in a jumble of fear. There, only inches from his face, gleamed a cold, white mask, in stark contrast to the black shadows around it. Shining from the right eyehole was that pale yellow stare! The terrified man took in the rest of the cold visage, the predatory smirk, the intense green of the one exposed eye. Buquet let out a soft squeak, for that mismatched gaze had pinned his feet to the boards.

The Phantom-Buquet had no doubt as to who it was-leaned closer and breathed in his face. The soft hiss jolted the paralyzed man into action at last. He spun away and fled down the long pathway. Below the Hunter and its prey, the ballet played on. The lithe figures leapt gracefully into the air, spinning in their folk-dance costumes as wooly white sheep bleated. The orchestra was slowly working past its cacophonous noise into something recognizable.

As the confusion lessened below, it only intensified above. Everywhere Buquet ran, the Phantom was there, teeth bared and black gloves extended. Buquet grasped wildly at the rigging and pulled himself up to the next level. He could hear the ghost coming after him as it pulled itself up with an easy flowing motion. He caught sight of the dark black shadow separating itself from its brothers, smoothly leaping across to block the exit.

Buquet was now alone on his catwalk, trapped. He saw the white flash of the Phantom's mask, directly across from him. Only ten feet away stood that cursed ghost, a vicious smile plastered on its face. Buquet jerked right, but the Phantom was already there, anticipating his every move. The stagehand jerked back left, and again was blocked. Buquet tried to scream, but his voice was still gone.

One last desperate chance he had. He turned his back on the ghost and staggered down the long catwalk. There was another door on the other side; he needed only to reach it. Without warning, the catwalk shuddered as the Phantom made a flying leap and landed on it. Buquet felt the footsteps resound through the wood. It was gaining on him, purposefully shaking the unsteady platform. It was only a matter of time before Buquet lost his balance and fell face-first onto the boards.

He flipped madly onto his back and saw the dark creature approaching, a long rope in its hands. Buquet whimpered as he saw the noose at the end. There was nowhere to go, and the unreligious man found himself praying to whoever would listen. There was no time to move and the noose came sailing over his head as the Phantom leaned in for the kill. The circle tightened around his throat mercilessly, cutting off his next gasp for air. Buquet groaned and pulled at the unforgiving rope about his neck. He looked up and saw the snarl of pleased hatred on the creature's face, determination to kill.

"No one hunts the Phantom," he heard it hiss, "for all is the Phantom's prey…" The rope constricted again, and Buquet saw flashes of light. Coherent thought left him and he became like an animal forced to choose between fight or flight. Flight was impossible, so he let go the rope and lashed out blindly. It was blind fate indeed that his hard fist found the Phantom's throat. The ghost gasped out in anger.

For a brief moment Buquet felt the noose loosen, and he surged upwards. No ghost was going to stop his earthly indulgences, not this one. The devil take him if he was not going to put up a fight! His desperate fingers wrapped themselves around the pale, slender throat above and squeezed hard. The creature snarled in his face and jerked the noose tight again, slamming its elbow into Buquet's chest. The two crashed to the boards in a mad race to choke the life from each other. _How can I kill a ghost? _Buquet felt his vision beginning to darken from lack of oxygen; his fingers spasmed. Something under his hand gave way to his grip.

The ghost choked loudly and slammed into him again. Its actions were more pronounced, and did he dare hope that it was struggling like he was? He held on tenaciously, the rope cutting into his flesh, blood dripping from his nose. The ballet played on in a waking nightmare. His hand was finally torn away from the Phantom and the creature was leaping back with a mighty pull on the rope. Buquet made a strangled cry, felt himself pushed over the edge of the catwalk, plummeting down towards the stage, the stage that he would not reach. Just before his life came to an abrupt halt, Buquet pondered, _so he really did have a nose after all…_

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The Phantom cursed the dead man swinging from the catwalk beneath. Screams of disbelief and terror sounded from the stage and audience. The Carlotta-induced humor was gone immediately, but the ghost was in no position to triumph over it. He leaned back against the railing with a gasping wheeze, feeling as if his throat had been torn open. The pressure had been immense; something had snapped inside, and he was having enough trouble just breathing.

No, there was not time for celebration. Stupid, stupid man, cursed petty stagehand, he seethed as spots danced before his eyes. He hoarsely gasped in another heaving breath, and clung to the ropes around him. He had to escape, to get back underneath, away from the prying eyes that now roved to the ceiling. Shouts sounded beneath as someone caught sight of his dark shape struggling to rise. "The Phantom!" they screamed and pointed.

The Phantom gasped hatefully and rose to his feet. Adrenaline now guided his leather booted-feet down the catwalk and into a side passageway. Voices were coming this way! He calmly did what he did best, and what human beings called "disappearing." The search party scurried through the small hallway without a second glance, determined to trap the ghost on the catwalk.

He would have smiled, if he could, as he staggered down the secret passageway. His silent feet led him straight and true, down to ground level and below, deep into the depths of the Opera House. His throat burned and every little movement sent waves of pain down his spine. Oh, to have that snoop Buquet alive for a few moments more; he would have made the death so much slower. He wanted revenge for the pain racking his body; a deep rage had settled in his stomach. His perfect plans for defending his home had unraveled briefly, and he had been spotted once again. Box Five had been purposefully filled, he had been hunted. (The hunter-turned-prey was now dead, but the Phantom did not care.)

No one bested the Phantom more than once; he was a very fast learner, and even faster to even the score. The Opera House would pay for this night, dearly. One fist clenched tightly, and the other lifted to rub at his throat. He still had some morphine from his last surface raid, and he intended to dull the fiery pain. Into the dim flickering light of his candles he came, sliding down onto the easy chair in the corner. A strangled growl lifted from his depths.

He raised his head and stared into the nearest mirror, gazing at the stark white of his mask, rubbing his throat. "You will regret that you did not do what the Phantom asked of you," he started to snarl loudly at the small figurines on the table. To his everlasting horror, no words came, instead a garbled choke emerged. He gasped for air.

No! This could not be happening to him! He could not speak! Bitterness and hatred welled within him, and he smashed his hand forward onto the small panorama. The small figures splintered under his gloved fist. His yellow eye blazed with venom. A wretched sob of anger ripped itself from his ruined throat.

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_A moment of silence for our Phantom's poor __damaged __larynx (aka voice box).__This is a new story that has been bugging me for quite some time to write. Guess that makes it not so new. _

_Anyway, is the poor guy's voice gone for good? How will he manage if it is? _

_Word of warning.__ My version of the phantom is not going to be the kindliest, friendliest version out there. I have read the novel by Gaston __Leroux__, and I have seen the 2004 movie. __I'm__ taking elements from both. His overall__ appearance is going to __be__ similar to G. Butler's, since that's the way I first saw him. But small things have been changed to be similar to __Leroux's__ version as well. __This story may well deserve its T rating before it's over. _

_Please__, read and review if you would. I'm always open to suggestion._


	2. Plotting and Recovering

Plotting and Recovering

_They would pay_. This was the single enraged thought that forced itself into his brain and refused to leave. The morphine was just beginning to take effect, so the pain was still reminding him that someone needed to pay. Just as soon as he felt better-hopefully he would feel better soon-the Opera House was destined for trouble. He would need to write a note expressing his displeasure with the managers, maybe order them to fire Carlotta. They would not do that, and he would be forced to take action.

Unless he scared them badly enough, the Phantom thought. He supposed the managers could be allowed to live; it took too long to train new ones. Firmin and Andre, though defiant, were already believing that the Phantom could be real. Oh yes, he was too real for their own good. A fire then? Perhaps a small fire in the dressing rooms, with an injury or two and a soft warning. And after that, some stage incidents, falling beams, broken appendages, etc.

A soft smirk played across his thin lips at the thought. He so enjoyed the power he wielded over those pitifully perfect humans. Christine's beautiful face appeared in his mind and he winced. She would have to be lured to safety before he struck; there was no way under heaven that he could harm her. The rest? Certainly, but not her. After a while, he would ascend again and see where she was.

It was unfortunate that she needed such close watching now. He had almost begun to trust her, but then that fop Raoul had appeared bearing roses and a brilliant smile on his godlike face. The Phantom lifted his lips in a silent snarl at the darkness. Envious of that perfectly balanced face, he wanted to wring Raoul's neck more than any other's. The ghost had been so close to capturing Christine with his singing, his dark appeal, his charm…

No matter, the Viscount could easily be silenced. It would only take a minute in the dark corners of the Opera House, and the Phantom would have nothing to worry about. Sadly, Christine or a crowd was always with him, making it impossible for a quick kill. And the man did support the opera.

He let out a strangled chuckle. His most recent quick kill had not gone well. Buquet had fought back with surprising force, managing to clasp the Phantom's throat in a deadly grip. Now he stared into the long mirror, observing the dark black and blue bruises on his crushed neck. He ran his fingers over it and emitted a rattled sigh. A closer examination revealed that Buquet had performed sore damage.

The medical book on the table gave no promising hope for a crushed larynx. It gave several examples of men who had lost their voices through accidents and fights, reduced from a booming presence to a wretched whisper. One man, James Longstreet from that recent American Civil War, had gone from being able to stretch his voice over the battlefield to a barely audible tone. The Phantom pushed back tears of despair. It had been blunt laryngeal trauma, his larynx crushed between Buquet's fist and his own cervical spine.

Was he then never to speak clearly again? Never to sing with perfect smoothness and clarity? The irony of it was too much to handle. Half of his one beauty had been ripped from him at last, and there was little left but the monster. Life was not fair! He lived to sing, to feel the music vibrating through him in a glorious, clean rhythm, no grotesque gargoyle face to sully its beauty. Music allowed him to sink within the shadows and create beauty unseen. Now he would be unseen, and unheard.

The glass of wine on the table was suddenly swiped across the room, where it hit the far wall in a crash of breaking glass. His breathing came fast and hard, forced with a wheeze up through his damaged vocal chords. He lunged up from the soft chair and dragged himself to the great organ, staring down at the mocking notes of _Don Juan Triumphant_. Those wonderful words he had composed to sing to her, to sway her to his side at last, would do him no good anymore. Who could love an angel who could not sing?

Tears sprang to his eyes, and he dashed the pages to the cold ground, slammed his hands down on the organ keys. The loud sound filled his ears, harsh and unforgiving, like his soul. _Like my soul…do I even have a soul? Or am I just a heartless monster like everyone has said I am, hiding beneath the façade of a creature of beauty and talent?_ The beauty was gone, but his heart still ached with a desire to love, to be loved. A monster had been given a heart; what cruel entity could have done such a thing?

A page of his opera lay still in his hand, and he stared down at it, wanting to destroy it in a mad rage at his luck. Yet it continued to lay there in his palm. He could not do it, for a tiny flame of hope resided deep within. He had overcome the tortures of a horrible face; maybe he could manage without singing…

No, it did not seem possible. Who was he kidding? His passion lay in singing, music. At least he still had his instruments, the organ and the violin. And eventually, Christine would sing for him, and all he would have to do is listen. This thought kept him from tearing the paper into a million pieces, and slowly he laid it back on the organ. Perhaps his throat was only hoarse from the pressure; just maybe he would recover in a few days. Until then, he would play his music by hand. Play music and wreak havoc on those wretched opera hands.

He thought about going in pursuit of Christine, then decided against it; his neck hurt too badly, and she was a good girl, not just good, perfect, beautiful. She knew what he wished of her. He was certain she would obey him…fairly certain. He sighed and moved towards the coffin in the adjoining room. The morphine was kicking in and sleep sounded altogether appealing.

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Christine trembled against Raoul in the snow of the rooftop. "He could be here right now," she whispered, shuddering. "His eyes can be everywhere, you know." Drawing her limbs close in an attempt to get warm, she turned dark brown eyes on her childhood friend. The young man tossed his blond head of hair and huffed.

"Look, Christine," he beckoned to her and took her around the shoulders. "I am always going to be here for you, and I do not care what this Phantom, ghost, thing thinks." His voice was filled with scorn and contempt, and she looked up sharply.

"You do not believe that he is real, do you? Even after all this?" she shook her head in amazement. "Raoul, I have seen his face, and he frightened me. His voice though….it was like an angel was singing, so beautiful that I was trapped by it."

"Look, dear, if he is anything at all, he is a mortal man, not an angel sent by your father to guide you," Raoul sniffed. He slicked his hair back, knocking off a thin sheet of snow. The cold whipped through his thin opera coat, but he bit back a complaint nobly. "And think of that poor stagehand; how can you ignore something like that?"

"Buquet?" Christine appeared surprised, eyes widening and lips parting. Raoul found it very fetching and leaned in close to kiss her. She pulled back with a soft laugh. "The only ones who will miss Buquet have moved on to the next available man. He was a very bad influence on the girls, trying to get them off alone, and all that horrible nonsense." She blushed, "I should not speak of such things in mixed company. My apologies."

Raoul liked her straightforwardness, reminding him of her younger days when she was such a carefree bold girl. He had almost forgotten those times, and suddenly happiness spread through him like a wave of heat. She was so lovely this evening, with the snow falling around her shining hair. "Don't be," he finally said. "I enjoy the way you are. It reminds me of those old days, remember?" She nodded shyly. "Where's that wonderful young girl again?" Raoul smiled mischievously.

"I remember," she grinned, "You were such a young rooster, prancing about, especially in summertime, up at the lake house. You and Papa would have such arguments, even at your fledgling age." She smirked cheekily and went to stand by the roof's edge.

Raoul joined her with a chuckle. "Yes, and I always won."

She poked him. "And you always were the biggest braggart." Her gaze drifted away. "Then my father died so suddenly…and I was left alone. Alone to grow up in the opera house. Where were you then, Raoul?" she turned and asked him, sadness now present.

"Oh love," he whispered. "I wanted to come to you, but my father demanded my education in London. But now, now I am Viscount. We can go anywhere, together." He placed urgency in his voice and wondered how she might respond.

She sighed. "Alone in the dark, I was there, until _he _came. My angel of music…He taught me how to use my voice, and he would sing with that breathtaking voice of his own. It would send me soaring to the highest of heights. It was the only sound I lived for, Raoul." She turned and he saw that she was in anguish. "I lived and sang for him, because I believed he was my angel, the angel from my father. And now you tell me he is but a man who murders."

"You saw it yourself."

"Yes…Who is this man with that mask of death?" Tears fell from her eyes, making Raoul miserable. "That horrible face I saw, but for the briefest time. I saw too much, but I heard too little. That voice, Raoul. He looked at me that night, and I saw pleading there. He wanted help, though what for I cannot say." She leaned against him. "Such darkness there. My angel…"

"No angel, Christine, but a twisted man."

"A twisted man desperate for love," she countered. "What could be so evil and so beautiful all the same? What could have made him so?"

"It is not like that, my love. He is evil entirely, and you must forget him. We can leave together and tour the world." Raoul pressed her gently, but she pulled back in horror.

"Leave? I cannot! He will know and be shattered. Raoul, I cannot do that, after all he has done for me. I cannot crush him like that."

"Are you willing to risk everything for his deceit? What about us, Christine?" Raoul gritted his teeth and felt a flash of hatred for this deceiving Phantom, whoever he was. "What about our future? Together?"

"Please, Raoul…not now," she groaned, heart aching. He instantly felt like a cad, and swept her to him.

"I am sorry, my love. Please, forget him tonight, just tonight. We will take this one step at a time. _No more talk of darkness, forget these wide-eyed tears, I'm here, nothing can harm you…_ Not even that cursed Phantom, he thought angrily, and kept singing.

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Later that evening, while the handsome young Viscount embraced his dearest friend, a letter took shape deep in the bowels of the Opera House.

_Gentlemen,_

_I am most displeased to find that although I have extended several amiable warnings in order to avoid this disaster, you have failed to heed my words. Sending a man into the rafters after me was most unwise, and I hope through his experience you shall not try such a thing again. As for the punishment I have planned, it shall not be pleasant, not for you. I fervently desire that Box Five be left empty this coming performance. _

_I remain, Gentlemen,_

_Your most obedient servant, O.G._

The Punjab Lasso twisted back and forth between the black-gloved hands...

* * *

**Well, instead of not hearing from the phantom for 6 months, it looks like the Opera House has made him mad. The fun begins in the next update. Many thanks to my reviewers, though I daresay there could be more. ****Again, apologies for any mistakes.**

_**I desire more reviews (happy, constructive, etc) and hope they will be coming soon, since I have noticed 60 hits on my far-fetched tale. I remain, Gentlemen, your most obedient author, **__**S.t.W.D**___

**TwilightSnowStar****: Thanks very ****much,**** and I'm glad you liked it so far. It's not actually the first ****fanfic**** I've done on here, though it's my darkest story I have yet. I have several accounts that I use for different categories and levels of violence, darkness, etc. We'll just have to see about poor ****ol****' Phantom. ; )**

**Elphie89: I'm very glad you reviewed and liked it. I had a hard time picturing it too, so I wondered what might happen if he lost it. We'll see about permanence…**

**And thanks to ****Trisse****GuTTerarT****, and ****TwilightSnowStar**** for the ****faves**** and alerts. **


	3. One Displeased Ghost

One Displeased Ghost

The next morning dawned bright and cold outside the Parisian Opera House. He clung to the icy statue and stared down at the group of men and women entering his opera. They were mostly stagehands and ballet rats coming back after a wild night on the town. He saw one girl stagger on the steps, heard her raucous laughter wafting up to the roof. Obviously, the sudden death of Joseph Buquet had not been enough to frighten them. He smiled faintly through cold and colorless lips. That could change.

Down off the statue he slid, silent as a cat. Something lying in the snow caught his eye, and he turned to see a blood red rose tied with black ribbon, lying frozen in the snow. He paused curiously and examined it. Why, it was the rose he had given Christine last night, after Carlotta's disastrous performance. What was she doing up here last night? His eyes narrowed and instantly the suspicious mind turned to Raoul. Could that young noble have been up here, pursuing what was the Phantom's?

Surely Christine would not betray him like that. He had made it painfully clear that he would suffer no young suitors…but…here lay the rose, wilted and forgotten in the cold, bitter snow. He bit back an angry snort and struggled to hold back his temper. He had no wish to harm Christine, but this warranted discussion. Judgment would come later.

The sun poked up over the roofline, bright light pushing into his face. He recoiled in surprise and lifted a hand to his eyes. A creature of darkness like him was unused to the sun's brilliance; he had lost track of time standing over that rose. Besides, there was work to be done today. The voices below faded as he entered the opera house through the small door.

Perhaps he would approach her again in a few days, when his throat had recovered. The Phantom could not bring himself to admit that his voice might be forever gone. No, it just needed time to recover, then he would be back on top of the world, and Christine would be closer to being his own.

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Darci spun in a pretty circle in front of the leering stagehand, giggling. "What do you think?" she asked. "I've been working on this for Monsieur Firmin; do you think he'll like it?" She batted her eyes at the man, coyly drawing back from his presence. He followed her across the stage with a hungry gleam in his eye, and she was reminded of Joseph Buquet. A pity, his death, but there were always more just like him.

"If he's any sort of a man, he'll love it," the newcomer assured her, winking. "Maybe you will get a raise, if you use it right." She shushed him with a blush.

The two were alone on the opera's stage, while the others were readying themselves for practice. The new stagehand Jacques Duvonce was here to replace Buquet. He had merely been told that Buquet had suffered an accident, tangling himself in the opera scene ropes and strangling himself. The owners had warned him to be careful while working up above. Darci now watched this new man, appreciating his shapely form and considering how to approach such a subject.

Jacques suddenly lowered his voice and stepped closer to her. "I've heard some fellows talking, that Joseph Buquet was no consequence of an accident. Is that true, my beauty?" She grinned up at his closeness, and saw that he was smiling too.

"No accident? Why sir, why should a big, strong man like you be afraid of a ghost?" she asked. "It's a rumor we have here, the Phantom of the Opera. Several girls believe he's real, that they've heard him singing, and that he has stolen things from them. Powderpuffs and things like that."

"What would a ghost need things for?" Jacques laughed. "I don't believe it; it's got to be a joke or a sick, distasteful prank." He took her arm in hand and smiled down. "Now my dear, how about you show me some of those dark, strange…haunted corners?" His smirk was perfectly clear.

She considered acting offended, and was about to speak, when a shadow to her left caught her eye. She turned quickly, but spotted nothing. "Did you see that? I swear I saw something move." The shadows looked strange this morning, the early light barely illuminating the stage. The workers had not yet arrived to light the stage lamps. Subconsciously, she shivered.

"And I swear, you've been scaring yourself with ghost stories," he mocked. Then he took her hand and led her back towards the stage's darker shadows. She was not resisting, when a flash of white caught her eye once again. She whirled in that direction and was startled to hear a shriek from Jacques behind her.

He was lying on the stage clutching his leg in agony. The board had broken beneath his weight and he had fallen a foot into the platform, wrenching his lower leg in the process. Darci slapped a hand to her mouth in horror. Never had she seen the platform give under anyone's weight, not even Piangi's. She bent over the distraught man in wonder. "The Phantom," she whispered.

Another noise, this time a low breathy hiss, caught her attention. She looked up and the blood drained from her face. There, floating in the air and steadily coming closer, was a powderpuff. She screamed as she saw that no one was holding it, and without a glance at Jacques, tore off across the stage. The stagehand moaned in frozen terror as it drew closer, closer. He was on the verge of fainting as it fell from the air and rolled to a stop at his side.

"Help!" he screamed into the unsettling silence of the opera house. Then it came to him, faint in his ears at first. His eyes followed the sound to the darkness above him and yet he saw no speaker. Was this the ghost then? The words were becoming clearer, and he heard an unfamiliar, rasping hiss. He had heard that it created only beautiful, glorious music. This was harsh, angry chanting. It made the words all the more terrifying. The harsh sound was only a whisper, but he heard it too easily.

_"__Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-_

_On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore-_

_Is there- is there balm in Gilead__?-__ tell me- tell me, I implore!"_

_Quoth__ the Raven, "Nevermore."_

"Is someone there?" Jacques groaned in mortal fright. His eyes rolled back in his head while the poem's last word echoed in his ears. _Nevermore…Nevermore…_"What does it mean by nevermore?" he whimpered, pulling at his leg and failing to free it. "Just let me go free," he begged. "Let me go free and I will never return."

A small pause. _"Nevermore?"_

"Nevermore," Jacques agreed.

Silence reigned again in the lightening shadows of the opera stage, but for the soft whimpers of a broken man.

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He pulled away from the stage with a small, angry smirk on his face. A simple illusion from his vast array of tricks had sent the flighty ballet rat into a mad panic, and the poem had coaxed the man into never returning. He rubbed at his throat; the speaking had hurt more than he expected, and his damaged vocal chords had rendered his ventriloquism impossible. Silence would have to suffice for his next strike, but all in all, the morning was going well, and he had only begun to show his displeasure. He crossed under the ropes of the massive chandelier and paused, staring down at its brilliant glass.

He had actually considered dropping it during Il Muto, but wretched Buquet had cut short those contemplations with his appearance. Now he considered dropping it anyway, but decided against it. With no audience, such a display would be wasted. He would save this fine moment for a time more deserving.

With a soft swish of his cape that no one heard, the Phantom disappeared into the shadows once more.

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"This is an outrage!" Andre sputtered, fluttering the paper under the taller Firmin's nose. "After all that madness last night, he has sent us yet another note! Look at this, Firmin." They read it together and wrinkled their noses. "Preposterous!"

"But Andre, he did kill our stagehand. I think he may mean business this time," Firmin paced back and forth across the small manager's office. "Perhaps we should listen, see if maybe the accidents stop." He moved to the desk and leaned heavily on the side. "I don't blame him completely. Carlotta was a fantastic disaster, what with her croaking last night. Yet it was no reason to kill a trained man. Does he not understand business? If we remove Carlotta, we remove a goodly portion of our income and he loses those precious 20,000 francs."

"She is popular," Andre agreed, and wrung his hands. "We had to cast her, but look what's happened. Do you think anyone will come back?"

A knock on the door ended their self-pity. A young man cautiously raised his hand in greeting, and then burst out, "There's been an accident on stage this morning! Our new stagehand has broken his leg and has vowed never to return. He is going on and on about the…ghost, sirs." He winced at their expressions and backed away.

Firmin strode forward and slammed the door shut. He whirled on Andre. "See? See! He promised this, man or ghost, and it is happening. We were far better off in the junk metal business." He ignored the soft correction "scrap metal" from Andre and kept ranting. "I think we had better do as he says, because if this keeps on, we're ruined, Andre, ruined."

Andre nodded sadly. "Yes, we will comply then. Box Five will be kept empty. But will anyone come, Firmin?" he repeated, small and frightened.

Firmin opened his mouth to reply, when the faint sound of screams reached their ears. As one, they scrambled to the door and peered outside, fearing the worst. What met their eyes was a motley collection of opera workers, carrying buckets of water and heavy blankets down the hall. "Fire in the dressing rooms!" came the shout, and Andre gasped. He gripped the doorframe and Firmin for support.

Firmin's face was sheet-white. "They will come, Andre, because we will be following those letters to perfection, until we can find a way to be rid of our ghost!"

**Well, hope you liked the next installment. Thanks to all you great readers out there and apologies for the pause in updates. Like I said earlier, the storyline is a morph of the movie, ****Leroux's**** book, and some musical. I've looked high and low for Susan Kay's version but haven't found it.**

**The poem our Phantom has quoted was 4 lines from the famous poem of Edgar Allen Poe, "The Raven." I always thought he'd have a soft spot for Poe's horror stori****es, and that he might put the words to music.**** Poe lived in the earlier 1800s, so it's even historically accurate. : ) **

**Mominator124: Thanks for reminding me about anonymous reviews. It's been quite some time since I've had to mess with it. ****I was hoping the idea might be the least little bit original. ****I'm very glad you're going to keep reading. **

**Katherine ****Silverhair****: Thanks very much, I'm glad you liked it, and I hope you enjoy the next bits coming up. Thanks for reviewing. **

**Elphie89: I'm happy that I could write somethi****ng that startled you. : ) ****Thanks for reading and reviewing. **

**TwilightSnowStar****: I'm glad she didn't either, since I was having a hard time picking what to do. Thanks for the great review and keep reading. ****Hm****, not sure where the voice went.**** Vacation maybe? **

**Emalin**** the Phantom is still hopeful that the damage was temporary. He's somewhat in a state of denial that something so horrible could happen to him. When he does realize it is lost for a longer time, watch out! ****I'll be extra wary of those parenthesis, and thanks for the constructive criticism and review.**

**Thanks to Ashton Potts, Koala50, Elphie89, ****Emalin, ****SarahNoir****, and ****Penmora**** Zenith for the alerts and ****faves**


	4. Sorrow to Anger

Realization

Christine sat in her dressing room and gently drew the brush through her hair. The entire Opera House was in an uproar, and had been for the last two days. Ever since the departure of Buquet's replacement, the hauntings had continued. Several ballet rats had claimed to hear him singing, singing low whispering songs of murder. The singing was not pleasant to hear anymore, but harsh and ominous.

They all claimed it was because the corporeal spirit had been angered. By what, the stories differed. All that mattered was his anger. The fire had been doused with small damage to the dressing rooms, but items were disappearing again. One of the dancers had slipped and sprained her wrist on the waxed floor of the opera. Who had waxed it, everyone knew, but no one mentioned.

Christine stared at her reflection. What could have made her angel so angry? Her mind flashed back to that night, three nights ago. Her special and tense moment with Raoul on the rooftop. Surely the angel had not seen them there. In all their talks, he had never mentioned leaving the opera house. Then again, she knew so little of her Angel.

She glanced at the clock. It was evening now, and practice was over. Madame Giry and Meg had just departed to retire for the night; Raoul had left much earlier. That night on the roof, he had promised her many things. He had told her that he would spirit her away to safety on his fine horses. Three days had passed, and he had not returned.

Christine was not sure she was happy or disappointed. Simply told, too much was happening for her to comprehend. She needed to clear things up, and that meant a talk with her teacher. The childlike faith entered her again, and she was sure he would set things right. If he showed up.

She glanced at her locked door and tentatively inquired, "Angel of Music, are you present?" Silence greeted her, cold and unforgiving. "Angel, please, I beg guidance. I feel…so lost."

Still no answer.

"Angel, are you angry with me? Tell me what I have done to displease you." Something rustled near her window, and she turned to look. Nothing was there. "Angel, why are you hurting the opera? Is it something I have done?"

A rough chuckle reached her ears. "Nay, child," something whispered beyond the mirror. Christine rose and hurried to it, and as it slid open two black-gloved hands reached out and caught her own. There stood her angel in his dark glory, white mask gleaming in the dim light. He was staring deep into her eyes.

"Please, why are you doing this?" Christine struggled to keep her composure. "What happened that night at Il Muto? Was Joseph Buquet an accident?" she reached up to touch his uncovered cheek, but his hand brought hers down. He was not smiling, and she was reminded of that first night to see him, the anger. This silent anger was almost as bad. "Speak to me, please, sing to me, tell me this is a dream."

"I will not sing," he finally whispered, pushing her gently back into the room. She never protested, watching his eyes all the while. Why was he whispering and not talking? She missed the beautiful purring of his voice. "They have taken something very dear from me, little one," he hissed into her ear.

Christine flushed red. He was talking about Raoul and his promise to take her away from the opera! Their childish scheme had been discovered. _Oh __Raoul_, she flinched under that steady gaze, those ill-matched eyes that never left her. "I am sorry," she whispered back. "I am so sorry."

"It was none of your doing, my little diva," he looked at her with a softening expression that bordered on a visual caress. "You alone are my window of light in this dark world…" So he did not know. She felt horrible, undeserving of that kindly look, and her chin dropped. He raised it with a gloved hand. "What troubles my beautiful student tonight? You should be happy, Carlotta is gone. Soon all of Paris will be at your feet, as I promised."

She felt lower than low. He had kept his promise, and she had broken hers. "I am sorry," she whimpered again. "I have failed you, Maestro. I have dishonored your wishes." She felt his fingers stiffen and watched him pull away. The cold light entered his eyes again.

"What…what are you confessing to your Angel, child?" Was he baiting her, waiting for her to spill it all? Christine was frightened deep inside. This coolness was too hard to face. "The boy? Was he here that night?" Harshness like she had never witnessed emanated from him. Christine glanced up sharply.

"Please, I did not mean for it to happen-"

"But it did!" he stepped closer, angry. "What little I ask of you, child…" The menace was growing, pulling a shadow of loathing over his face. Christine shrank back.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It was too much to ask of him. The Phantom felt the tiny grip of control sliding away. Her guilty refusal to meet his eyes told him everything. She had been with the boy that night, and no childhood exchange had passed between them. His damaged throat threatened to choke him with his own tears, and he turned away from her.

She had chosen the boy over him. No, he could not face her, not now. With the low, anguished moan of a dying animal, he spun on his booted heel and fled through the mirror. Christine, foolish girl, tried to follow him. He turned one last time and hissed in her face. "Do NOT follow me." Then he was inside the mirror, locking the latches and stumbling down the dark hall.

"Angel, I can explain." She was calling to him, but he was afraid of doing something rash, and all he needed was an injured Christine. _I am not certain you will ever be able to explain this to me, treacherous angel of heaven._

_Down once more to the dungeons of my black despair…alone._ He thrust his hands against the unforgiving stone of the opera house, twisted his long fingers into the small crevices. He was alone, rejected, forever. His feet eventually drug him down the many levels, back into his lair, where he collapsed onto the organ bench.

The phantom tried to scream. He could not. A hoarse wheeze was all that followed. He crumpled onto the organ's keys, making it declare his grief for him. The music of the night was almost over, he firmly believed. Tears trickling down his face, he raged at his lot in life. He had been ruthlessly cursed to be a monster forever, to be shunned and mocked, used and dropped, feared and hated.

Thoughts of turning his own lasso on himself had crossed his mind, but something indefinable kept him from ending his miserable existence. He tried to argue the fruitlessness of it all; Christine was lost, his voice was gone, perhaps forever, he had murdered again…but no, that primeval urge to survive held him in place, slowly channeling the sorrow and heartbreak into malice.

Christine was gone…He wanted revenge again, and by his every intention, he would have it. The girl could never be hurt, he would not harm such innocent beauty. _Innocent beauty that went behind your back with that boy…_ He shook away the blasphemous thought; the Vicomte was to blame. Christine was gone…

He jerked his head up. Plans needed to be laid for this event, and he was the master of plans concerning that great expanse of death. Inspiration, that was what he needed. Languid and listless, he crossed the large room to his bookshelf, and pulled a volume from the second row. Lovingly, he caressed the worn volume, dropping into the chair and opening the book to one of his favorite stories…

_"__So far, I had not opened my eyes. I felt that I lay upon my back, unbound. I reached out my hand, and it fell heavily upon something damp and hard. There I suffered it to remain for many minutes, while I strove to imagine where and what I could be. I longed, yet dared not to employ my vision. I dreaded the first glance at objects around me. It was not that I feared to look upon things horrible, but that I grew aghast lest there should be nothing to see. At length, with a wild desperation at heart, I quickly unclosed my eyes. My worst thoughts, then, were confirmed__…"_

**Yes, more Poe. What can I say? He's obsessed. ****Taken from the Pit and the Pendulum.**

**A slightly smaller chapter than last time, apologies for that.**** Tune in for the next update, in which our tortured Phantom goes further than he intends. I have to admit…this is somewhat a story to counteract all those mushy romances in which everyone lives happily ever after. I don't mind a couple characters having that, but everyone? Not highly realistic. I leave it to you to guess who gets what. : ) **

**Wow, thanks for all the reviews, dear readers. I hope only to write up to your expectations. I remain your obedient author, ****Smaug**

**Katherine ****Silverhair****: Thanks ****muches****. I'm very glad you liked the Poe and Civil War references. I'm a fan of them both, and particularly James Longstreet. Here's hoping you like the latest.**

**Mominator****: Yes, I despise virtuously impaired Ballet Rats. : ) ****And**** Andre and ****Firmin**** might think of that eventually, if things don't get too bad…Thanks for reviewing.**

**Elphie****: I love a good haunting mood, after all, what are Phantoms for? Thanks for reading and reviewing.**

**TwilightSnowstar****: I would do that except for a lack of college spending dough…And Christine doesn't get away with much.**

**Laal**** ratty: I'm glad you like it. Thanks for reviewing; I hoped it would be original.**

**Emalin****: Violence is only beginning. Like I said above, I'm rebelling against all that mush. : ) Hope you like the latest. **

**Hot4Gerry: Irredeemable? We shall see…evil chuckle. I'm glad you liked the descriptions, but though OCs may show up, I doubt Erik is in any frame of mind to go falling in love. …assuming he gets anyone at all…poor guy. Thanks for reading.**

**SignedOG****: I heard about ****Leroux's**** enjoyment with Poe just recently. What a stroke of luck that I picked him. Great minds think alike. ****Jk****. Thanks for reading and reviewing. **

**Music's Angel: I'm cruel? I've been told that before, for some odd reason…I shall try to keep writing well then. Thanks for taking time to read and review. **

**Many thanks to Katherine ****Silverhair, ****SignedOG, ****Laal**** ratty, and ****Music'sAngel**** for the ****favs**


	5. Sins of the Fathers

Sins of the Fathers

The Phantom of the Opera stood deep within the shadows of his hidden passage, his cape drawn firmly around his shoulders and his eyes gleaming like lanterns. The opera house was chilly this morning, and he pulled up his collar around his neck. It may have been his imagination, but he thought he could see his own breath puffing softly out. _I need to get that fixed then,_ he decided in his mind. _Those money-grubbing managers should know better than to scrimp on coal for heat. If anything else, the cold will harden the dancers' muscles. _Twas a very good thing that he wore many layers.

He had finally curbed his streak of haunting, disappearing into the depths of the opera house for almost an entire week. It would not do to get caught because he went overboard on powderpuffs. The Phantom snorted back cheerless laughter. Winter had set in full force, and every time he went to the surface, he heard the wind whistling through every crack and crevice. The rooftop he avoided, as it reminded him of the recent confessions of his student. The memory still burned as bright as ever, her eyes turned away, her tremulous, lying denial.

None of the pain had left him, but he was succeeding in changing it. It took shape in the form of diagrams, diagrams of dark rooms and cold pits. Diagrams of mindboggling torture, with but a single person dominating his thoughts. It released the pent-up rage to make these designs while thinking of the boy, and Edgar Allen Poe never ceased to raise his dark spirits. A few modifications on the poet's stories were all that was needed, and the supplies and time to build them.

Oh, to have had Poe's writing in Persia, but he took a certain pride in thinking of his original designs that made such an impact. The room of mirrors, the iron tree… Keeping his own hide alive while designing the deaths of others; it had been a hard, cruel life, but what else had he known? The Phantom was thoroughly convinced that there was no other way of living in the world. Humans were inherently cruel.

He gently blew into his gloved hands, a futile effort to warm them. His hands were always cold, the touch of death and destruction. He could not remember a time when they had been warm. Science told him it was poor circulation; instinct and the world said it was the devil's grasp. Sometimes…he wished he could feel his own warmth, if he had any.

Something clattered to the floor beyond him, and he instantly tensed. A few silent steps later, he was peering around the corner to see the intruder, and his handsome left side frowned. What was that snooping Persian doing here again? It had been months since his last visit, since the Phantom had almost killed him over the chess board. Now, the ghost could not even remember the argument. All he knew was that the Persian was always disapproving of his actions, attempting to be the man's conscience. The Phantom did not want that now, not when he was so close to revenge. _Go away, _he grumbled silently at the ignorant figure stumbling down the hallway.

The Persian lifted his head and stared into the darkness. "Are you there, my old friend?" he called. "I thought I heard you."

The Phantom slid further into the shadows, determined not to show himself. _Get out of my opera house, fool. And certainly stay out of my passageways. All I need is you bumbling things up again. _He could strangle the man and be done with the problem, but there was a tiny part of him that remained human, no matter how much of a monster he was. It was the same section that refused to touch Christine, that never approached women or children to kill. It would not be right to kill a friend of so many years.

It seemed ironic to him that a monster was bestowed with morals. Certainly, the Persian was no friend-honestly, the Phantom _had_ no friends-but he was the closest thing to one. The Persian had saved this worthless life once, long ago, so the Phantom would return the favor. However, he felt no obligation to speak with him and silently slipped down the hallway. Let the Persian wander where he willed. _He_ had rounds to make.

The Silent Ghost was everywhere that morning, peering down at the stage from above, watching the dressing rooms, observing the managers' office. Out of habit, he approached Christine's room, but found it empty. For the longest time he stood there, staring from the mirror at her dresser that overflowed with flowers from her last performance. Because of him…her teacher…her teacher that would never sing again to her, most likely…

Sorrow was threatening to push in again, so he quickly left the scene.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It was several hours later that Fate brought down her cruel fist on his head. While passing the managers' office, he heard a strangely familiar voice. It almost sounded…like…Buquet! How could that be? The buried rage rose to choke him, and after a quick check of the hall, he was pressed against the office door. Every fiber in his body was listening, snarling at the memory of the fiend.

It took all of his will power not to burst in and strangle everyone, but he held back. It had to be a trick. "Now, I understand that this is regrettable, Monsieur Buquet," he heard Firmin placating. "It is regrettable indeed, and an accident, we firmly believe."

Buquet! A relative? A relative of the man who had stolen his beauty?

"Your father's death came as a shock to us all, young man," Andre added. "I wish there was something we could do for you and your sister, but I am afraid that accidents do happen-"

The Phantom was startled, and almost beyond common sense. That wretch's spawn lay behind this door, the prodigy of Joseph Buquet. Raoul slipped from his mind, and soon all thoughts of revenge were directed onto this man. Here lay his chance to revenge his life. He reached deep within his cloak and withdrew the Punjab lasso. This boy's father had ruined him, ruined his chances of ever singing Christine back into his reach.

"An accident, my foot!" he heard the angry reply. Good, angry humans were easier to dispatch. They were blinded to danger like that. "I have heard rumors among your staff, my father's friends…" The voices died away as the Phantom floated down the hall. Blood pounded in his ears, and he tasted something metallic in his mouth. The pain of the bitten tongue was forgotten as he pulled himself up into the dark rafters and lied in wait.

Buquet Jr. would have to emerge soon, and then God help the men between him and the Phantom. The seconds passed too slowly, the door seemed to refuse being opened. Still he stayed, the anger growing in him and unable to pass from his throat. It built in his body, searing into every nerve and filling him with a powerful bloodlust like never before. He could barely see for the bright red visions dancing before his eyes. Yes, he would wait forever, if need be. And he would have his Punjab take longer than the usual few seconds.

It turned out he would not have to wait so long. The door creaked open and a cloaked and hooded figure slipped from the room. The Phantom came to attention. Short and scrawny, just like the father. Did the boy think he could hide from death by wearing a cover that hid his face? The voice had given him away, ironically.

Like a silent gargoyle, the Phantom posed above the boy as he moved down the hall. Soundless as a ghost, he flipped from rafter to rafter, stalking cold and remorseless. The hallway became empty at last, except for prey and predator. The predator did not hesitate. Down he dropped several feet behind the boy, never making a sound. Approaching the clueless boy, he removed the lasso from its hiding place and lifted it, feeling the familiar weight.

"Let the sins of the fathers be visited upon their sons," he whispered with a predatory grimace spreading across his half-ruined visage. The boy started to turn, but with a harsh, maddened laugh, the ghost threw the thin rope of catgut over the figure's head. Buquet's son let out a strangled cry and threw up his slender arms. The Phantom moved quickly, driving one knee into the young man's back and sending him to the floor.

The rope tightened and was drawn up hard against the stubborn neck. He felt that indescribable sense of power, power over life and death, power over those weak mortals who dared to laugh at his face. He gritted his teeth, too late for pity and compassion. This creature was the spawn of the man who had torn the Phantom's voice away. The man who had hunted him, chased him in his own dwelling.

The man who had spread the stories of his face.

His vision went red, and he jerked harder on the Punjab lasso. The boy gasped and struggled, but the Phantom always learned from his mistakes. He kept his knee firmly in the boy's back, kept the cloak's hood over Buquet's face in order to remain unseen. The dance of death went on in the dark hallway, and Buquet played his part well. Of course, with the Phantom coaching, how could he do less?

"No…please no!" The boy squeaked softly, and the Phantom could imagine his eyes rolling back in terror and lack of oxygen. There was certain justice in this, oh yes. This cruel human would never have the chance to mock anyone again, never a chance to beat someone because their face was less than perfect. He was doing himself and the world a favor, from his twisted view.

"Please, show-augh-compassion!" The high-pitched pleading grated on his delicate ears. The boy was a whiner, and the Phantom felt his hatred growing. Ah, of course, they all whined when it was their own life on the line. He leaned closer in, hovering over the cloaked head, relishing the control. He was hearing the laughter of the gypsies in his head, and the boy turned into his one-time owner in that feverish mind.

"The world showed no compassion to me!" he snarled. The boy was becoming weaker, his pale hands slipping from the noose about his neck. It was time to end this pitiful creature. "Sorry to end this, but my dance card is filled," he rasped in bright-eyed rage, giving one last mighty pull at the rope, not sorry in the slightest.

He heard the soft crack and knew the boy was in no more pain, not here on earth anyway. Slowly, he slid the noose over its head and let the body down to the floor. It was then that he received the most awful shock of his life. Worse than any torture chamber of Persia, worse than his beatings in the carnivals, he stared in stupefied horror.

Spilling out of the ragged, old cloak's hood, were beautiful reddish-brown curls. Shoulder-length hair framed a pale, delicate face whose eyes stared into the distance and saw nothing. A young woman, no more than a teenager… He staggered back from the sight, dropping her limp body to the floor and breathing heavily. Blood dripped from a scratch on her forehead, no doubt caused by the rough stone floor.

"No…" he groaned, "No, how? Why? Why??" He could not peel his eyes from the gruesome vision. What horrible trick had the heavens played upon him now? He had killed a woman, no son of Buquet. He dropped the lasso from his unfeeling hands and fell to the floor beside her still form.

Outwards his hand stretched, pulling the cloak away from her once lively face. She had been young, not much older than Christine, if any. The thought burned his mind like fire, what would Christine say of him now?

This could have easily _been _Christine, he realized, stunned.

Murderer, child-killer, woman-killer…With a sob, he pulled the body into his arms and rocked back and forth. Monster! His mind screamed at him, and he no longer doubted that truth, and he never would again.

He had touched a woman to kill. What a hideous thing he was!

Desperately he gripped the woman's arms, laying her down on the floor and bending over her. Resuscitation did nothing to bring life back into her cooling lips. Her flat chest did not rise and fall with new breath. He ran his long murdering hands over the perfect face and he cried out. "No, please! I did not mean to…to…" But he _had_ meant to… "I have killed a woman."

He laid her softly on the floor, stretched out and limp. The face was not peaceful, and she seemed to stare up at him in a silent scream. He shuddered and closed the pale blue eyes with his fingertips. How long he sat there beside the body, the Phantom could never say, but it seemed to him like years. Years of agony without end, as the conscience once buried deep within him surfaced in an angry tide.

He was the basest wretch on earth. He had to be. All the anger ran out of his body, and he filled with despair. He did not belong here, among the civilized world. He was an animal; no wonder they had treated him so. Every beating, every lash of the whip was all for this. The light left his eyes and they filled with darkness instead. It was the hopeless darkness that he would never escape, because he was born of darkness. He was the darkness.

Here lay the proof, the beautiful young girl, once full of life and laughter, he was certain. A girl child, unable to fight back, unable to face her fate like a man could. Who had she been? A friend to those in need, a young Madame-Giry-in-training? He could not look at her anymore, and crawled several feet away into the darker shadows. There he stayed for a very long time. Yet, even nightmares must eventually draw to a close, and he heard footsteps at the other end of the hall. Guilt told him to stay and face what he had done, but the primeval instinct for survival was filling him again.

He fled down the hall as silent as ever, gliding into one of the hidden passageways, and there he lurked. He wanted to know who he had killed, as if he owed that much to the dead girl. The Phantom's sharp ears heard a startled, boyish shout rise up, and he glanced through the peephole.

A young man, a several years younger than Raoul, had spotted the cloaked body lying in the hall, and he came running down the hallway to land in a heap beside the still figure. He knelt at its side and pulled the hood back with a short piercing cry. "Oh, my sister! What has happened to my sister?" he screamed, clutching her to him much like the Phantom had. "Antoinette Buquet! Who has done this to you?!" He dissolved into wordless keening.

The Phantom flinched as if struck when he heard the name. He had meant to kill a Buquet, and he had done so, but not the right one. The boy's sister had been in that office as well. Numb, he watched as the managers appeared behind the boy. Andre looked ready to throw up, and he was clutching Firmin's arm in desperation. Firmin, normally the tough one, had gone pale.

"Firmin!" Andre cried. "We have agreed to follow those letters, but it is only getting worse, not better!"

"I can see that, Andre," Firmin ground out, staring transfixed at the body on the floor. "O.G. is past insane; no one is safe from his icy clutches any more, not even the women." The Phantom had no spirit to enjoy the theatrical moanings of these men. He agreed with them for once; he was insane, driven mad by his own anger.

He rose and fled from the gathering crowd, unable to think, unable to feel anything but the need to cry out. And he still could not.

**A nice (not so nice) chapter to make up for the short one last time.**** I did warn you about our troubled Phantom, but he's not completely gone, yet. ****A genius, yes, but a madman as well.**** However, I feel that he would have been horrified to kill a woman, especially a young one. ****Changes in store for our story, a sort of turning point where things will be different.**

**I hope I'm not making him too hate-worthy, but after reading about his ****backstory****, I can't see the sappy personality and ****burdenless**** Phantom of the movie. Something about assassins or executioners ****or torture chambers**** (cough ****cough**** iron tree) ****doesn't seem very cuddly. Though he is patterned after Gerard Butler…I'm only a human female, after all. Hey, and the Persian makes an appearance.**

**About the violence, I'm not sure about ratings on things like that or suicidal thoughts. I come from a very conservative background concerning children, so please tell me if you ever think this will need a stronger rating. **

**TwilightSnowStar****: Yes, more angst. Somehow I can't easily see him living happily ever after, especially with no voice, but you never can tell until it's all over. Thanks for reviewing.**

**Mominator****: Things are now in for a bit of a change, which I hope you'll like. And yes, I have plans for ****Raoul****…lots of plans. Diagrams and designs and planning, oh my! Thanks for reviewing.**

**Laal**** ratty: I'm glad you think ****he's resembling**** the book version. I hoped he was a little bit at least. Thanks for reviewing. **

**Emalin****: Yes, he's really lost it now…I almost feel sorry for being so mean to him, and he's a fictional character…As for Poe, well, Phantom Boy really likes the Pit and the Pendulum story. : ) Poor ****Raoul**** isn't in the clear, not by a long shot. **

**BlueBlazesWildcat:**** Thanks for the reviews. Okay, first chapter: I'm glad you liked the writing, and I researched crushed ****larynxs**** to get that part right. Chapter 2: Same research sounded doubtful of a recovery from said event, especially in those archaic times. : ) ****And**** I knew the opera season was in winter and early spring, just not the exact months. Thanks for the tip. The performances would have continued but for the Phantom's untimely**** interruption. Chapter 3: After reading the ****Leroux**** book, I realized he was a bit unstable, what with all the Persian shady business going on. A bit of rebellion from ****Plushie****-Erik, I must admit. ****And he has had a trying year… ****Chapter 4: I'm glad you liked it; Christine just doesn't know what she had/****er****…has…****I can tell you're just going to love this chapter…****lol**

**Thanks to ****Scorpionorchid, ****BlueBlazesWildcat,**** and May's Shadow for the alerts**** and ****favs**


	6. Betrayal

Betrayal

Madame Giry was wondering what the world was coming to, honestly… That was the second ballet rat she had seen running down the hall way at full tilt. The child had not even stopped to spill her gossip to her ballet mistress, which worried Madame Giry more than anything. _It is a day gone wrong when my ballet girls keep their lips shut, _she pondered in silence, staring after the frightened girl.

Was _he _causing trouble again? Giry lifted her head and saw that she was approaching the closed door to Box Five. Without really expecting anything, she pushed upon the surface gently. To her surprise, it swung in with a soft groan. The middle-aged ballet mistress tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and slid into the box.

In the time it took for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, Madame Giry knew she was not alone. She could hear the ragged breathing of a ghost, coming from the second chair to the right. It was no trick of ventriloquism; there he sat, in huddled misery, a black mass of evening dress and quivering shoulders. Why…he was crying!

Madame Giry pulled back for a surprised minute. She had not seen the terrifying man cry since he was a boy in the gypsy pen. When he had returned, there had been no emotion, only a cold smirk on his half-concealed face. Now here he was in his infamous Box Five, golden and green eyes full of tears. Slowly she approached from the side, as one might approach a wild animal. He was a wild animal, in most senses of the word, ready to bolt or fight at the slightest provocation.

She made certain that he saw her before coming closer. He lifted his head in a start, jerking that multicolored gaze to meet her own grey one, then falling away and turning back to the floor and his gloved hands. This apathy was confusing; usually, he was so very careful of her, so determined to remain a ghost. "What…what has happened?" she barely spoke aloud, but he heard her. He always heard her.

His head shot up once again, and he was staring at her so intensely that Madame Giry grew frightened. The haunted gleam was back in his eyes, the pain, confusion, and regret. It brought back a tidal wave of memories. She reached out a hand to touch his shoulder, but he pulled away from her fingers as if burned.

Out of the seat he shot and into the corner of the opera box, his thin, black-clad body melding into the darkness. All she could see was the white of his leather mask, gleaming out at her. "Please," she whispered, "What is wrong? Will you not tell me?" He seemed to shrink back further with each word she spoke, and Madame Giry grew worried. "I still care for you, why can you not trust me and tell me-"

Faster than her eyes could follow him, he was gone from the shadows and hovering inches from her face. He was so close, closer than ever before. The eyes stared wildly at her, the breathing short and heavy. "You will not anymore… not after this!" She was not given time to answer. In the moment it took to gather her voice, he was gone from her presence.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Christine found herself wandering down the long hallway in a trance, her mind reeling with the news that spread faster than a wildfire over the opera house. Joseph Buquet's only daughter lay dead in the west wing, near the managers' office. Oh, she probably was not there now, instead awaiting burial in some Parisian morgue, but Christine felt the shock now just as keenly.

"My beautiful Angel of Music, Phantom of the Opera, what have you done?" she whispered into the dead silence around her. She recalled his stiff, sullen silence when she had approached him several nights ago, and Christine gasped aloud. "Was I responsible for this?" she whimpered, and was surprised to hear an answer.

Thank goodness, it was not _him._ Instead, the handsome young Vicomte stepped from the hallways shadows and enfolded her into his arms. "It was not your fault, Christine. Never think that. You cannot be responsible for a madman's actions." He held her tightly and whispered sweet nothings in her ear.

She stared up at him. "Then you finally believe he is real, and not a dream. Oh Raoul, what are we to do?" He nestled her deeply in the folds of his coat. There was nothing improper intended, for he saw the frightened child trembling before him. This small girl needed a friend, a companion to shield her from life's cruelty.

Raoul felt the sudden twinge of anger in his chest for this Monsieur Phantom. The creature had pushed Christine into his horrifying world without a second thought, while she was but a babe. He had deceived the dear girl, Raoul's childhood friend. "Christine, I am sorry to do this, but do you know of anyone who has seen the ghost, or talked to him?" He gently pulled her back and lifted her chin.

"Wh-why, Raoul? What are you going to do?" Tears dripped onto his hand.

"This murderer must be stopped, my love. And I need to know something about him in order to stop him. We need to confirm that he is, indeed, real. Tangible, stoppable. I do not want him to hurt you." Raoul was surprised when she pulled away from him.

"Raoul! He would never hurt me, I am sure of it. He has shown me nothing but kindness. I am confused, Raoul," she admitted after a long pause. "How can he be so kind, and so cruel? Roses on the dresser, and murders in the hallways. Angel of Music, and wrathful ghost…"

"He is mad, Christine," Raoul insisted. "Insane, and only you can stop him." He approached quietly. "Who can tell us of him, Christine?"

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"You know more of this creature than you are letting on, Madame."

Madame Giry stood in the doorway of her modest dressing room and stared at the young couple. Christine and Raoul were clinging to each other as if the world was falling apart. From the expression on Christine's face, perhaps it was. Giry raised her voice, prepared to deny any association with the infamous Opera Ghost.

Raoul intercepted. "There is a young girl dead in the hallway, Madame. And we have firm cause to believe that your Phantom is responsible. Will you deny her also?"

Madame Giry barely felt her feet give out beneath her, and would have fallen to the floorboards of her dressing room if Raoul had not caught her. This could not be true! Yet her mind flitted to that expression on _his _face, the horror and self-revulsion. She lifted her head and catching sight of Raoul, offered a weak smile of gratitude. "My thanks, young man," she nodded to him and found her favorite chair. Christine and Raoul hovered over her; the young singer's face was stained with tears, and the vicomte looked ready to hit something.

"Are you certain, Christine?" Giry turned her piercing eyes on her former charge, and was dismayed to see the meek nod. "Dear girl, what are you going to do?"

Raoul looked up sharply. "What is she going to do? No, Madame, the question is, what are we going to do, about him? He has gone too far this time; a young girl has been cruelly killed in this opera house. The blood is on that monster's hands, and I cannot rest to think that Christine is in such a reach." He patted Christine's hand and smiled at her in encouragement.

Giry saw the drawn smile returned, and the older woman sensed the torn spirit of the girl. _Oh my dark little spider, what a tangled __web__ you weave, once again. _Clearing her throat, Giry met the young nobleman's gaze with an even, cool expression. "Monsieur, he is no monster. I can hardly believe that this is his doing. He has never harmed women or children before."

Raoul paced across the room, running his hands through his sandy hair. "Before? My word, what are we dealing with then, if not a monster?" Christine stirred at his word, and he went to her side with a soft murmur of apology. Giry watched him and struggled to compose the right words.

"He is not a monster, but…he has led a very hard life, Monsieur," she admitted. Perhaps some of the Phantom's story would lessen the ice in Raoul's heart, but she doubted it. "He was abused very early on in his childhood, for the same reason that he wears a mask." Here, she directed her gaze at Christine, fully aware of that recent, fateful night. Raoul saw the look but failed to comprehend its significance.

"A mask? He wears a mask?" he asked. "Why would he wear a mask?"

"He wears a mask because of his face, sir. It is severely disfigured, and has been from birth," Giry wondered at the wisdom in revealing this, Erik's most personal life, but she was committed now. "His own mother rejected him, from what he told me, and gave him away to the gypsies." Christine gasped softly. "That is far from the worst of it, dear girl. He was caged by those pitiful excuses for humans, and put on display as the Devil's Child."

Raoul winced, but willed his resolve to stand firm. "I fail to see-"

"He was beaten during every show, and the crowds loved it. Long ago in 1852, when I was only 14 years old, I was there one evening with a dozen of my friends. We wanted to see this creature so raved about, so we bought our tickets to see him." Madame Giry looked as close to losing composure as Christine had ever seen her. "I watched them beat him almost senseless," she whispered, red shame covering her cheeks. "And as I was readying myself to leave, it happened. He turned on his gypsy master, and he killed him."

Christine covered her mouth in horror, but Madame Giry was not done.

"He opened the lock with the gypsy's key and stepped out before me. Before we had time to say anything, they discovered the murder, and we fled. I took him to the _Théâtre__ de __l'Opéra_ and led him down into the cellars, you know of the Opera house before this one, its name changed so very often. I was a ballet rat there, and there he stayed for years, learning to become like the night. I helped to feed him and keep him alive, but barely. He was always so thin," she reflected. "He never threatened to hurt me, always showed nothing but kindness to me."

"Obviously, his kindness has turned to cruelty," Raoul insisted; her words reminded him far too much of Christine's.

"Perhaps, but he was a broken spirit. Years passed, Monsieur, and I fell in love. Not with him, but a young aspiring business man. I fear that my marriage broke him again, in all the wrong spots. He left without a single word or farewell one winter night of 1857." Giry stared down into her lap. "And I stayed on at the older Opera House for quite some time, finally coming here in 1872, as the Paris Populaire was being constructed. As I bore Meg and raised her, and watched my husband die of pneumonia, I never expected to see _him_ again."

"What happened?" Raoul asked, caught in the story in spite of himself.

"He left a boy, and returned a man, a very different man…"

_The freshly widowed Madame __Giry__ wandered down the long hallway of the almost completed opera house of 1872. She held the young child in her arms, weeping for her losses and cursing the world's dark fate. Why had God taken her husband from her so soon? Down she turned into the small dressing room that was hers. Meg was content to be laid in the crib and quickly fell asleep, leaving __Giry__ to her dark thoughts. _

_Madame __Giry__ was alone in her world. This new Opera House was almost completed by the architect Charles __Garnier__, and soon it would open for business. She had come here in pursuit of a better future, for her, and for her young child, Meg. The older opera house was too set in its ways, and she wanted a fresh start. She wanted to leave all of her memories behind. In that quiet hour, for an inexplicable reason, her mind turned to the boy she had brought to the older opera house, so long ago. She wondered where that boy was, if he was still alive, or the ghost that he had claimed to be. _

_"Where did you go, boy?" she wondered out loud. _

_"He grew up, Madame __Giry__."_

_She leapt a foot into the air in fright, and whirled upon the intruder. There, standing at the base of Meg's bed, stood a man. Not just any man, this fellow. This man was impossibly tall and thin, dressed in impeccable evening clothes and a long black cloak. He seemed an extension of the room's shadows, his face completely hidden. __Giry__ widened her eyes, suddenly afraid for Meg and herself. The man chuckled softly in the back of his throat, and spoke again. The mellifluous voice threatened to drown her in its low beauty. _

_"You have no reason to fear me, yet, Madame." He stepped forward into the candlelight. "What can a ghost do to the living anyway?" He smiled at her gasp, but the smile held no pleasantness. Across the right side of his face was a brilliant white leather mask, hiding the deformity she had almost forgotten. His handsome left side observed her with as much expression as the mask._

_"You!" she was shocked._

_"Surprised?" __His lips quirked up.__ "Yes, I thought you might be. I have returned at long last, and I am planning to settle here, Madame __Giry__, here in my beautiful Opera House. I have taken great pains to create this labyrinth… You know, it is almost ready to open, Madame __Giry__." She noticed the stress placed on her title, and she shivered at the displeasure in that perfect voice. She watched him lean over the bed and take in the sight of little Meg. "Your child is beautiful, Antoinette," he finally admitted. "Please, accept my sympathy for the loss of your husband."_

_She stared blankly. "How did-how did you know? It has been 15 years since you left. Where have you been all this time?" She could not decide to laugh or cry, when he suddenly frowned._

_"Madame, suffice it to say, I have been gaining an education in the real world. As to how I know, I know a great many things. I'm always watching. Do not presume that you may know about me now." She gasped softly at the bite in his words. Where had the hurting boy gone? What was this strange, cold man doing in his place? "Now, now, do not look at me like that. I may have a job for you soon, little __Giry__. I need a messenger for my orders." _

_"Who are you?" she asked, trembling. This confidence, this arrogance was not like him._

_"I am your obedient servant, O.G." he replied cheerlessly, turning on his boot heel and striding silently to the door. He paused with his back to her, and sighed. "Good day, Madame."_

_"O.G.?" she asked, swooping down on five-year-old Meg and holding her tightly. The young girl was beginning to stir with the sounds. This distantly familiar stranger sent chills of fear and something unidentifiable down her ramrod-straight spine. She catered to the strong urge to defend her child from him._

_He turned to look at her once more. His mouth did not move, but she heard his voice speaking to her. __"Opera Ghost, Madame, who else?"_

Madame Giry leaned back in her chair and sighed deeply. "You came to be with me in 1874, Christine, a seven-year-old in a brand new opera house. I became his messenger, bearing the notes to the manager at the time. As time passed, I caught bits and pieces of those missing 15 years. Things like a Persian man were hard to miss. The lasso came after he returned too." She remembered the first time of seeing it coiled around his hands like a deadly snake.

"Persia?" Raoul repeated. "How did he get all the way to Persia?"

"He never told me. In fact, I know next to nothing about those 15 years. He shut himself away from me, and never let me in again. I was not welcome in his home anymore." Christine reached out and patted the older woman's hand when she saw the tears. Giry smiled down at her adopted daughter.

Raoul had latched onto one thing and tenaciously clung to it. "Home? Where is his home, Madame Giry? Is it near the opera house? Is it here in the opera house? The attic?"

Giry drew herself up straighter in her chair and glared at him coldly. "I was not allowed in his home again, Vicomte, did you not hear me? I cannot say where he now dwells, only a word of warning to you. He will know if you try to find him."

**A bit of back story to somewhat explain where my Phantom is coming from. As far as his appearances, I've tried to incorporate that into my story without devoting a million paragraphs to him. He's tall, thin, pale (no one can live underground in the 1800s and have a tan), wears the movie/musical half mask; in my mind I have the one half of his face patterned after a paler Gerard Butler. What can I say, I saw the movie first, and I liked the appearance while masked. Unmasked, eh, not really fear-inspiring… **

**The dates were a sticky mess, but I believe I have hollowed out a reasonable schedule. For my story's purposes, I have the Phantom being born around 1842, being rescued by ****Giry**** in 1852, leaving the old opera house (the one that burned in 1875) in 1857, returning to the new opera house he has designed in 1872, having the Opera House open in 1874 (which matches history now, ****woot****), and the current time being 1882, making him around 40 years old. **

**Christine arrives in 1874, as the Opera ****Populaire**** is opening, seven years old. This makes her 16 in the current time. Meg is also ****16,**** and Madame ****Giry**** is an ancient 45. ****Raoul**** is…****Raoul****, somewhere in his middle twenties.**

**Laal**** Ratty: I'm glad you like the unstable ****Erik,**** and I hoped that I would get such a circumstance acceptable. Thanks for the review.**

**Mominator****: Glad you liked the chapter, and I hope you liked this one. ****More to come on Christine and the Phantom in the next chapter.**** We'll have to see about his mental stability…**

**Music's Angel: Thank you ****muches****. I'm glad you enjoyed. And yes, we'll just have to wait and see about poor Phantom. **

**TwilightSnowStar****: Yep, Nadir. I figured he needed in on the story. More ****Nadir**** to come soon. **

**FriendorPhantom****: Thanks for your review. I'm glad you liked it. **


	7. Betrayal Returned

Betrayal Returned

"Gentlemen, I assure you this is no ghost you are dealing with."

Christine gasped at the voice in the managers' office. What was Raoul doing here? And why was he speaking of her teacher? Less than a few hours had passed since their discussion with Madame Giry, and she had begged Raoul to let her Maestro alone. It had been a horrible accident, she pleaded, and Madame Giry supported her.

Raoul had supposedly given in, accepting her tears and promising her that everything would be all right. She had foolishly believed him. Now as she was passing by the managers' office, he stood within, no doubt surrounded by the very eager managers. "It is, in fact, a man," she heard him state.

"Well, that is the grandest news I've heard since coming to this opera," she heard Firmin's deep sarcasm echoing in the small room. "A man that acts like a ghost is as hard to catch as a ghost."

"Not quite," Raoul argued. Christine could see his determined set jaw in her mind's eye, and she suddenly felt betrayed. Raoul had only let her think he would say nothing. He was betraying her trust, and her Angel of Music! The voices drifted through the door to her. "I am fairly certain he resides somewhere in this opera house. Gentlemen, after this last killing, you cannot afford to keep this ghost."

"Missing powderpuffs may amuse the crowds, but if they believe they might be killed, do you honestly think the cream of Paris will come to your plays? They love their fat selves and wine too much to risk their lives over an opera." Someone coughed loudly. "You will only attract lowlife thrill seekers, and your opera will suffer."

"Come now," Firmin blustered. "I hardly think that our loyal patrons of the arts will abandon us over some stagehand's daughter's death."

She heard a long sigh erupt from her childhood sweetheart. "Let me put it another way, Monsieur Firmin, Monsieur Andre. If you do not take steps to remove this menace, your patron will be withdrawing his support, and your young star, Christine Daae."

Christine felt a twist of indignant anger in her chest. Raoul was speaking for her, and threatening to remove his monetary support. The anger brought guilt for thinking so poorly of her love. He was only trying to protect her; why then did she feel so torn in two? They would try to find the Phantom, but he would just hide yet again, deep in his secret passageways. The opera could always find another patron. She heard the voices lower into a soft murmuring that she could not understand, and Christine grew worried.

The next words she heard sent a deep chill through her body. Andre piped up at last. "I will contact the gendarmes then," he offered. "We will see if they can bring the bloodhounds. Our resident Opera Ghost has overstayed his welcome."

Raoul laughed. "He never had it to begin with. Gentlemen, I also happen to know of someone who is familiar with this ghost's dwelling, Madame Antoinette Giry."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Down the winding stairs she scurried, hands clutched to her chest as if to still the wild beating of her heart. Soft as a shadow, she fled into her dressing room and closed the door behind her. After assuring herself it was locked, she hurried to the mirror and pulled back on the sliding glass. The secret passageway was dark and damp, so unlike that beautiful evening when his voice had beckoned to her with the music of the night.

Did everything he do have two sides to it? Such beauty and such darkness, Christine had to wonder at the thought, as she tiptoed down the passage. Down and down again she descended, three levels, four, five. There lay that curious underground lake, its black water smooth and calm, so unlike the turmoil which broiled in her own stomach.

There lay that strange little gondola, odd that it was on this shore instead of the far one, but she had no time to ponder that. Bravely, Christine pushed the little boat away from the shore and stepped in. Her trembling hands found the long pole and she propelled herself into the gloom. Her ears pricked up when faint sounds reached her. Breaking glass? Worried now, she pushed harder on the pole.

Eventually, after meters and meters of unsettling darkness, she felt the boat shudder under her as it connected with the far shore, and she quietly slid onto the smooth bank. The sound coming from his lair was irregular and violent. She heard a strangled gasp and crept forward. There, she could see light shimmering just around the corner, heard the sounds growing louder.

She pulled herself up behind a large wooden dresser and peered around the edge. Evidently, he was beyond caring if anyone heard him. He stood in the center of his lair, back to her, shaking violently in a rage. She watched him hurl the object in his hands to the ground and withdraw to the far side, weeping, the perfect side of his face to her.

A rasping sound filled the air, and it took the startled Christine a moment to recognize his voice. What was wrong? The smoothness was gone and only harsh snarling remained. She marveled at this in horror. The angelic voice was gone, leaving the hideous rasping of a demon. No! She must not think like that. He was still her Maestro.

"Why do you not strike me down now?!" she heard him whisper at the ceiling. He was not screaming, but she could see flecks of foam on his left cheek, almost like a rabid dog. "Why do you let this wretched, wretched monster endure? Is there no compassion to be found in heaven for this – this thing?" She felt badly watching him now. This remorse and self-hatred crushed her spirits like nothing ever had. Here was her fallen angel, begging to be struck down by Almighty God.

"Strike me down! All know I deserve it! She is bearing down on me, the dead weight of her body! I KILLED A CHILD!" Christine cringed back from the unearthly strangling hiss of her angel. "I cannot kill myself, coward that I am, so kill me, God! Are you even there? Are you laughing at this hideous gargoyle?" He crossed the room to stand at one of the few remaining mirrors, staring into his own face. "I never meant to kill her, but it is proof! I am a monster!"

Christine was startled again. Too far away to see past the shadows, she could not see the white of his mask either. It lay on the organ instead. She watched in horror as he lifted his hand and slammed it forward into the mirror. The glass shattered under his fist, blood dripped from those long, pale fingers. "Angel," she whimpered. So he had killed the girl after all.

He froze. Had he heard her? Christine pulled her eyes from the sight and slid back against the dresser. Silence reigned in the cellar of the Phantom. Christine could barely breathe in that oppressive silence. What was he doing?

"You!"

Christine screamed at the hand that snaked out and wrapped around her wrist. It pulled her forcefully from behind the dresser and into the candle light. Christine did not even register the blood that smeared her arm, his blood. He stood before her, raging, golden and green eyes flashing. "Come to see the murdering fiend, have you? Come to stare at his face again and see what he is for real?" He firmly pulled her closer, still holding her so as not to harm her. "Here then! Have your fun and take your look! All for free, no cost to see this monster!"

It was incredible in its terrific horridness. She recoiled against his vice grip and fell to the cold ground at his feet. He snarled softly at her and leaned down, taking her chin in his hand and forcing her to look at him. The face…she wanted to close her eyes at that repulsive sight, but the morbid visage drew her gaze. The pale flesh of his striking left side faded into the background, and all she could see was the right side.

What had been glimpsed so quickly that one night before, she now saw with perfect clarity. Almost as straight as the edge of a knife, the difference lay bare to her. The right half of his nose was nearly gone, in its place a dark slit of a nostril. The skin was white and thin and patchy, missing from his skull in certain places and revealing the stark white of bone. She could see his bared skull disappearing under the dark black hair line. _A wig?_ The eye socket was sunken in, darkened with shadows of anger, golden eye blazing out at her. And horrors…was it her imagination, or did she truly see his molar teeth through the hole in his right cheek?

Christine shuddered and struggled to look away, and he finally released her. A chilling broken laugh rang out in that tomb-like silence which followed. He stood over her, chest heaving for air, raging golden eyes still blazing down at her.

"Yes!" he choked out at last, "So you were right. The monster is here after all! Yes, this paradox of your poor Angel of Music, such a handsome face, is it not? Here? But here! Here lies the corpse that loves you still!" He drew her hand up mercilessly to lay it against his flesh, and she cried out at the coldness. His face felt like death! He stepped away from her, shivering. "Yes, I am a monster after all," he rasped, clutching at his throat and moving further into the shadows. "You have seen the phantom, and it is not a pleasant sight. You have seen him kill, again."

She trembled on the ground, afraid to move or speak. How could this creature with the face of a demon be her Angel of Music? How could this killer have created such beautiful melodies? How could one half of him be so beautiful, and yet the other so ugly? She watched him melt into the shadows, saw now that the white mask was once again on his face.

"Your eyes give you away," he whispered hoarsely. "I see the revulsion in them. You do not like the look of death? But it is what I am." A few tears trickled down his uncovered side, and he angrily wiped them away. "Your refusal hurts your poor maestro. You see me without my music, you see me as I am…" he moaned and crept from the darkness on hand and knee, approaching her fallen form with reverence.

"An angel cannot love a demon. I once had thought the opposite…now I see my reflection in your face, and I despise me." The Phantom stretched out his long, slender fingers towards her, but stopped just short of touching her. She was above him; he had no right to sully her with his grotesque touch. "An angel…with a voice from heaven. Keep it, and sing for the one you love," the words caught in his throat, choking him. He crumpled in upon himself, pulling his face into shadow.

"For I…I cannot," she heard him whimper as she watched the faint light pierce the shadows and flicker across the white of his mask. He had turned the mask to her, unwilling to show himself again. They froze like that for a long moment, inches apart and both gasping for air that did not seem to come. She reached out for the hand that hovered above her, but he suddenly pulled back.

It came to her then, the faint sound of a barking dog. Her eyes widened. "The police," she cried, "they have brought the bloodhounds. You must flee from here! This is what I came to tell you about, truly!" His tortured mismatched eyes regarded her. "There is no time! Firmin and Andre have decided to end these charades; Raoul told them you are real, that you live here in the opera house."

"They have sent dogs after a ghost?" the Phantom asked. "Would it be better this way? Only a monster will they find, a heartbroken, wretched monster…"

"No! I cannot see how, but I care for you still. You were my Angel of Music, and I will not see you torn to bits in your own home," Christine insisted, reaching out and seizing the powerful, thin man by the shoulder. He flinched back from her contact and slid across the floor.

"Angel of Music? I was, but no more, no more, Christine. They have taken my song," he sounded as if he would like to scream, but could not. The once otherworldly voice was struggling to form a single sentence. "I am only an Angel of Death now."

"Whatever you are, you showed me kindness," she replied, losing patience. "Please, do it again and leave before they find you. I do not want to see you hurt by them." His eyes turned onto hers once again, and he leaned closer. She could barely breathe at his closeness, an utterly foreign sensation swept through her shaking frame.

"You still…care for this loathsome gargoyle?" his tone told her he did not believe her.

"I know…about you, my Angel," she admitted. "Madame Giry told Raoul and me. We had to know, after what happened. I feel horrible for how the world has treated you…" she reached out to take his hand, but caught sight of the change in his countenance. It was swift and fearful.

"She had no right!" His eyes narrowed, and his thin lips pressed firmly together. The one golden eye glowed deep inside the mask. "Too late for pity," he snarled softly. "I tire of pity, child. This monster only wishes he could see something other than pity and hate in this world, but it is not to be so, evidently." He shrugged out of her tender grip and rose to his feet in one fluid motion. "Yet I will honor your pity one last time. I only wish…" the façade dropped for a tantalizing second, and she saw the aching, broken man instead of the cold phantom. His eyes stared at her, pleading; his hands clenched at his sides. Then it was gone. "I only wish it might have been something…more."

"Please, Maestro, do not do this," she begged, tears streaming down her face. "I see the repentance in your eyes. You did not intend to kill her. There is still hope-please, let the police find nothing, and then-"

"And then what? Return to my ghostly duties and watch as you marry _that _boy and start your special little family?" There was no mistaking the bitterness in his rasping voice. "I see no need to go through that again, Mademoiselle. No, I will not. There is nothing left here for me. My angel is given away, my managers cannot appreciate fine art, and my own, my only treasure is gone, perhaps forever… I am certain you have realized that I can sing no more, dear Christine. Joseph Buquet saw to that."

"It is only a voice, my angel," Christine started to whisper, but he cut her off with a harsh laugh.

"Only a voice? It is only me, after all. It is _only _song. A song that only you gave wings to, Christine. And it has failed me." He took several long steps back into the shadows. Watching him, she felt as if her soul had been ripped in two. She could not see the dark tears that slid down his own face and melded into the shadows. "Goodbye, little angel of heaven. Your ghost is no longer welcome here, so he will go away, far away."

"Wait," Christine pleaded. "Please wait, Angel." He turned the white of the mask from her and was lost to the darkness that he so adored. "Angel!" she cried. _Angel of Music, __come__ back to me. I need your guidance; I am so lost here. _"Come back," she clutched at the hem of her gown and stared into the black cellars of the Opera Populaire. He was gone, her teacher, her ghost, her friend…gone. "Gone…"

Something awful occurred to her then and she felt the tears begin afresh. "You never even told me your name. And I never even asked…God help me."

**And here is where our story draws to a close…**

**I**

**I**

**I**

**I**

**Just kidding. ; ) **

**I wouldn't be that cruel to our poor Phantom. My only regret about this is that he won't be showing up in that red death outfit for the masquerade. ****: ) Adventures to come, though I'm still reserving my college-irregularity ticket.**** Look for a pause of at least a few days before the next chapter…since I have two papers and a presentation to make this week. Hope you liked. **

**Elphie89: I'm glad the back story worked; it turned out to be a combination of both ****Leroux's**** book and the most recent movie, pretty much my only two sources for my tale. Yes, the whole genius thing in the basement of an opera house that wasn't even built yet (and designed by himself somehow : ) …it troubled me, so I improvised. Thanks for reviewing. **

**Mominator****: I'm glad you liked that scene. I wanted to have Madame ****Giry**** and the Phantom ****interact**** a tad more-they're rather fun to write. And I noticed the pattern appearing as well, so I've shaken things up in this latest chapter. (Just shows that you can't get away from a good story.) Thanks for reviewing. **

**Emalin****: I'm happy to have taken someone by surprise. So I've gone and messed up the Phantom's life some more. Go ahead and throw me in the briar patch. : ) ****As**** you've likely already noticed, I did change the disfigurement as well, to be a little more fear inspiring. And dates are fun, aren't they…sigh… I tried Middle Earth dates a few times, finally gave up on them. Thanks for reviewing.**

**Frodoschick****: Actually, I haven't read ****Phantom**** by Susan Kay. I've only heard hints as to its storyline. Here's another update I hope you enjoy, and I'm glad you like it so far. Thanks for reviewing. **

**TwilightSnowStar****: I've seen that movie, absolutely hilarious. "I am the Phantom and my name is Gerry…" ****lol**** Classics right there. I saw the movie before I read the book, so my Phantom will forever look like GB on the unmasked part. However, I did want a more fearsome disfigurement. Thanks for reviewing. **

**Music'sAngel****: I'm glad you liked the back story too, and the story line. I'll try to keep you happy with updates. : ) ****Thanks for reviewing. **

**Also, thanks to ****Venomlover, ****friendorphantom****, and ****frodoschick**** for the ****favs**** and alerts. **


	8. Where Do We Go From Here?

Where do We Go From Here?

Madame Giry knew something was wrong when she answered the knock at her door and found several large, uniformed gendarme officers staring down at her. Andre and Firmin were here as well, their shifty gazes flitting from each other to the older ballet mistress. "May I help you fine gentlemen with anything?" she finally asked, voice dry and scratchy with ill-disguised fear. "I hope none of my girls are causing any trouble."

"No, Madame Giry, your girls are fine," Firmin coughed. "We are here on another matter entirely. Perhaps you have heard about the latest murder in this opera house?" His tone was polite, but Madame Giry could hear the fear shaking his voice. She watched the two managers sweating in her doorway and stepped back into the room.

"Please, come in and make yourself comfortable. My room is not much, but…" she turned her back to compose herself. In truth, she would not tell them anything. She owed that much to _him_, and she already felt badly about sharing his story with the young viscount. Madame Giry lit one small candle on the dresser and faced the waiting men. "I have heard rumors, kind sirs. But I fail to see how this concerns me."

Andre moved his large form over to her favorite chair and sat down. "Please, Madame Giry, let us not skirt this tender subject. Our fine patron-you know of him-has brought some important matters to our attention. Mostly concerning the Opera Ghost."

Madame Giry felt a tight burst of anger in her chest, making it hard to breathe for a minute. So Raoul had gone to the managers after all. Just how much had he told them? "The Opera Ghost? Why would you need me for that?" she asked, keeping her voice deceptively level.

"Now, Madame, he told us more than you think. We are now currently aware that this Ghost is indeed a man, and we have firm reason to believe _you_ know where he resides." Firmin spoke with quiet accusation, his eyes narrowed at the once-trusted ballet mistress. "We are concerned for our opera house, Madame, and its future depends on the removal of this dangerous man."

"I-I do not know what you mean," Madame Giry protested. She felt trapped in her own room, and perhaps she was. The large policemen still stood in the doorway, dark eyes watching her every move. They watched like they would watch a criminal. "How would I know where he resides? He is the Opera Ghost, and goes where he pleases. I would be terrified to try to track him down."

"Please, lady," one of the gendarmes laughed. "He's a man. Kindly drop all pretenses of ghosts and ghouls and tell us the truth. You know where he is."

Firmin shot a sharp look at the officer, and turned to Madame Giry. "You have been our ballet mistress for some time, have you not, Madame?" At her abrupt nod, he continued. "I would be horrified if we were to lose you. But if these murders keep up, well. Business will drop, and jobs will be lost. It is a sad fact of theater life."

Madame Giry understood perfectly. He was threatening her with the loss of her job if she did not cooperate. "I still cannot see why you came to me," she insisted. "I am harboring no criminal."

"Ah, but you are, Madame," the gendarme interrupted again. He crossed into the room and stood before her, fat face leering down. "If fact, there are repercussions for harboring a criminal…prison, possibly even death-" The woman's face went white.

Firmin gasped as the words hit his ears. "Sir! We mean no such thing to Madame Giry. She has faithfully served us and turned the ballet into something extraordinary. How can you threaten so?" He tried to smile at Madame Giry, but she saw the strain in his eyes. He was tiring of her obstinacy. "Try to understand, Madame. De Chagny told us everything, everything. It is no use trying to claim you do not know the monster."

_Obviously, he left out the parts that prove there is no monster. _Andre leaned in from the other side. "As much as I would like, I cannot control the government, Madame. If you are suspected of criminal activity, we cannot help you. Only you can help yourself."

Madame Giry glanced from manager to manager. She saw the triumphant smile of the policeman's face, and she bristled, heart sinking in her chest. They had backed her into a fine trap of her own making; if only she had never told Raoul the truth. It was too late now, for they were holding onto her like dogs on a scrap of steak. "I might know his general location," she admitted. "Many years of note deliverance allowed me to sense his presence. He always came from the first cellar."

Andre smiled at her, basking in his victory. "You will not regret helping us be rid of the fiend, Madame Giry. And I am certain your daughter-Meg, right?-will be grateful as well." She lifted startled eyes to his own cool ones. Threatening her was one thing, but threatening Meg was another entirely! Well, they seemed to have thought of everything, she mused ruefully as the dogs were called into the building. _Forgive me, my old friend. It seems I am destined to forever betray you. I will do what I can. _

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The Phantom tore his gaze from the weeping girl and turned his attention to matters at hand. He moved like a man in a dream, silent and not really aware of himself. Too much had happened, and he was left reeling, drunken on pain and anger and fear. So…she had come to warn him, but she had done so only out of pity. It always happened like that, he mused, as he entered his bedroom and flung open the wardrobe doors.

Two formal evening outfits were tossed unceremoniously into a large bag, followed by a pair of boots, gloves, cravats, and several shirts and undergarments. He was not really thinking about what he did, but it came naturally to him. Running came naturally, for always the world hunted him. He tossed the bag on the coffin's lid and crossed over to the small dresser. Dried beef and a water container filled his long, pale hands. Yes, he was always prepared to run.

Run to where? Where could a voiceless, faceless murderer go? One dark place briefly entered his mind, and he could not shake the thought away. "Well," he murmured into the bag as he placed the food within, "the Shah is passed on now if the paper was correct, and the Sultana must be on her blessed death bed…" He looked up at the ceiling, yellow eye snapping with conflicted emotions. "The Shah's son…I saw him but once. Surely he would not remember me, and he would not know about the palace. And there is no place where one such as I belongs more."

The bag went over one shoulder as he swept across the room. The long black cloak joined his apparel and he patted a soft black fedora down on his head. He regarded his image in the mirror, and switched out the white mask for a full black mask. Wearing white in the dark was asking to get caught, though he forgot that his own gifted eyesight saw more than the average man. "Persia it is, then," he told himself with a sharp nod, and stuffed the white mask in his bag.

The anguish of leaving Christine and his own guilt were beginning to tear at him again. Demons never left him alone for long, his one true source of companionship, his twisted mind. He was beginning to regret the decision to leave. Surely Andre and Firmin would never find the secret passageways. _But the dogs may do so. And why do you want to stay? To wallow in Christine's pity? _

Disgusted, he snorted into the quiet room. How could one person demand such love and anger at the same time? Christine had betrayed him with that young whelp de Chagny and still she had come to warn him. She cared, out of pity for the wretched monster. Not for him, no, never for him, but for what he looked like, for his face. Let her have her perfect man then; he was beyond caring about that. The Phantom repeated his hopeless thoughts under his breath as he slipped into the cold hall way.

One last favor to that beautiful, traitorous angel sobbing by his organ; he would leave her alone to live life as she pleased. He would let her go, free her from his murderous tutelage. The action of walking away hurt him more than he ever dreamed. Each step was like a punch to the stomach, and he felt himself wheezing softly through his damaged vocal chords. It was for everyone's good anyway; he rubbed at his hands and could almost see the shiny crimson of blood on his fingers. It was not really there, but he could see it.

_Am I going mad? _His mind whimpered under the tidal wave of emotions. He was a cold-blooded murderer…Christine had abandoned him…she _pitied _him…his beauty was gone… He had to leave. He had to leave! The faint barking reached his ears once again, closer this time. Perhaps they were already to the second cellar. He had to remove this worthless carcass for Christine's sake. Oh, he would die like a dog at her feet if she but requested it of him. Instead, she was telling him to leave. _Out of sight, out of mind…_

The Phantom passed by the main room once again, and saw that her quivering body still lay crumpled by the organ. His cold, blackened, crushed heart started to seize with crushing pressure, but he clutched a fist to his chest and fled past her in the shadows. She never saw his lean figure pass by, and kept moaning incomprehensible words into the unfeeling stone floor. In his state, the Phantom never considered that she might be crying for him, only that he had caused her such pain.

He gently reached out a long, pale hand and caressed the cool wall of his home. Such a strange place to think of as a home, but then he never was one for normality. He would never walk in the daylight with a lady on his arm; he would never stroll the sidewalks and indulge in her window-shopping fantasies. Why then should he have a normal home? Or a home at all, he realized as he slid down the dark passageway. He could not deny that he loved this refuge of darkness. Perhaps he could return in a few years, when Christine was married to the Viscount and no longer performing.

Christine's sobs faded into the dark behind him as he padded silently away. More as a ghost than a man, he kept walking until he saw a distant gleam of white. Ah, Caesar, that beautiful companion of his, a horse that would never do for night time riding. He welcomed the gentle knicker from his equine friend and rubbed the uninjured hand in the soft mane. "I will take you back to the stables," he promised, unconcerned about talking to a horse. "There you will be cared for, because where I am going will be no place for you."

The white horse nuzzled its head against his chest and let him pull himself onto its back. Then they took off down the long hallway, winding upwards towards the surface and the world. He kept no track of the time, determined to leave his miserable life behind once again. Why was it so hard to do this time? The reason lay crying in his former home. _She only pitied you, __fool. Why are you so set on having your heart ripped out and stabbed? Go on, leave her. She will be happier without you. _

The thought drove him all the way to the surface and into the darkening evening air of the stables. He dismounted the handsome stallion and led it into an empty stall, patting the velvet nose one last time and closing the door behind him. He caught sight of his new steed, the handsome, midnight black stallion across the stables, and started to cross the cobblestone pathway.

"Hello? Is someone there? I say, speak up if you are not a thief." The Phantom spun into the shadows, pressing himself down along the wall as the inquisitive stable hand came to investigate. He became as nothing more than a lump of hay covered by a dark cloak. The young man leaned forward, peering over the stall door and gasping aloud. "Why, it is Caesar! How did you get put back here?"

The dark shadow watching him took the moment of distraction to vault into the black stallion's stall. The large horse shuffled to one side, nostrils flaring at this intrusion. A yellow eye held its gaze without flinching, and the stallion seemed almost hypnotized. Its own gaze never left the strange creature in its stall. This…thing…certainly looked like a human, but it did not smell like a human. It smelled of earth and stone and cold dark musty places. It smelled of death. The stallion half-reared back, startled and frightened.

"What goes on there?" The stable hand turned at the commotion and approached the stall. He never saw the horseshoe clamp that crashed down on the back of his head, and collapsed similar to a sack of potatoes. The ghost stared down at the fallen body and then stepped over it, opening the stall door and throwing a blanket and saddle on the horse's back. The bridle followed and soon the horse was moving down towards the stable doors, bearing Night itself on its shoulders.

The doors flew open, caught by the howling winter wind, blowing snow into the warm stable. The gleaming black mask turned once to regard the majestic opera house one more time. A solitary tear dripped from the golden gaze, and then the Phantom of the Opera galloped into the darkness.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Perhaps it had only been a few minutes, perhaps hours. Time just did not pass the same down here, Christine realized, her tear-filled eyes lifting from the floor at last. She gazed around the room and saw that it looked the same as ever, candles burning low, rich red drapes in the corners, cool smooth stone. It was missing only the dark touch of his glowing stare.

Christine pushed a sob back in her throat, and sat up. No figure stirred in the shadows to greet her; he must have truly left. She wondered if he meant forever when he mentioned leaving. Careful to keep from touching the organ, the young girl stood to her feet and padded across the main cavern. She could see light gleaming from the far doorway.

What she saw stunned her, when she pushed the heavy oak door open. There before her, draped in black velvet cloth, was a coffin of deep, shining wood. Christine gasped at the morbid sight. He kept a coffin in his bedroom! Her hands drifted over the cold wood, caressing the edge. She looked for the bed, and saw nothing, and the truth slowly dawned on her…He slept here, in this coffin. She could even faintly smell him, that mixture of mustiness and earth.

"What kind of life have you known?" she asked the empty air. "What cruel world would make a man sleep like this, sleep like death?"

"Perhaps because he is death himself," a quiet voice replied, startling her beyond measure. She slammed a hand against the coffin's half-open lid, and whirled on the intruder. Her breath came hard and fast. It was not _him. _The man standing at the edge of the shadows was short and stout, coal black eyes standing out like bright pinpoints in the gloom. He was smirking, one corner of his lips turned up in a wry smile.

"Who-who are you?" she gasped. "No! Do not come any closer, or I will-will-" she glanced madly about for a weapon, and withdrew a large candlestick. The dark-complexioned stranger laughed at her response. He stretched out a bare hand to her and dipped his head in greeting.

"My apologies for startling you, Mademoiselle. I am afraid I was not expecting a young lady to be here." He stepped further into the candlelight, and she could see that he was dressed very oddly. His shoes were soft and pointed; the coat was a deep blue and covered in intricate patterns. It even looked like he was wearing a bowl on his head, with a little gold tassel hanging from it. She might have laughed, if she was not so scared, and worn out.

"I am sorry. I did not mean to intrude, but, what are _you_ doing here?" This was the Phantom's domain, and if he were still here, she feared for this man's life. He needed to leave immediately. However, he only stood there and watched her.

"I am here to visit an old friend," he replied at last, gently prying the candlestick from her fist and setting it on the nearest dresser. "I feel that I have arrived too late, or have you seen him? Tall and thin, rather moody? Yes, I can see that you have." She noticed that his French was laced with a foreign accent, but what she could not guess. His clothing certainly was not French. He noticed her staring at him and smiled. "How rude of me. I am the Persian."

A dog barked in the silence. "The Persian?" she asked in disbelief, her jaw hanging open. "The one who terrorizes the girls with his evil eyes? You know the Phantom of the Opera?"

The Persian chuckled, the warm sound spreading through her cold frame. "I am he, and yes, I know our friend. Why did he leave so suddenly?"

Christine's face burned. "I saw his face and pitied him. On top of that, Raoul has betrayed us." _Us?__ Where did that come from?_ She cast her eyes to the floor. "I do not know where he went, or for how long."

"I see. Well, I heard about the 'accidents', and I came to talk to him. Now he is gone, and you are in his place. This is no place for you, Mademoiselle." The Persian took her arm in his and led her out of the frightening room. "I will take you back to the surface, and you must not come back. If the policemen find this dwelling, it will not be safe." She allowed him to walk her into the dark hallways, back towards the boat on the lake. They walked in silence, one confused soul and a very remorseful soul.

Christine glanced up at her rescuer's face. His eyes did not seem so evil now, but glowed with a soft black shine. So unlike that yellow gaze which seared her to her very core. This Persian reminded her of a lazy lion in a zoo, calm and still dangerous. Did he not have a name either? She determined not to make the same mistake twice, so she stammered out, "Ah, please, Monsieur, I do not know your name. I wish to thank you properly."

He looked down at her in surprise. "Nadir, Mademoiselle, you may call me Nadir."

**The hunt has begun, the Phantom has fled, and the Persian has arrived. Gasp, I'm using a bit of Susan Kay's book (which I've never read) and calling the Persian by a name.**

**Sniff. I just finished watching the Phantom of the Opera, Version 1990 with Charles Dance starring in it. I don't claim to know the general consensus on that movie, and I know some things were changed from the book (what doesn't?), and yes, some of the acting and effects were a little odd, but I really liked it. A very different version of Erik, but it was so sad…grrr, I hate it when that happens. **

**Anyway, that version will not be making it into the story. Slowly, bit by bit, I'm becoming an educated Phantom fan. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and apologies for the delays in updating. College and all that, you know. ****Apologies for any mistakes in here.**

**Laal Ratty: Yes, Raoul was a very bad boy. If only I could put him in time out. But he's only doing what he thinks best for Christine; I can't really blame him.**

**Mominator: I've been called that before. : ) ****The**** hunt for the Phantom, has begun, but don't think he'll go easy on them. A mad, half-mute, disillusioned Phantom is never good to run into, but he does attract trouble. As for R/C, hmm, haven't decided.**

**Venomlover: He does need a second chance, I'll give him that, but will I give him a second chance too? Hard to say, and I'm glad you liked it, in a teary, sad sort of way… : ) **

**PhanPhicPhantastic: Glad you liked it, and I was glad to cheer you up again. I hate to leave folks sad. Maybe he'll get kidnapped along the way and stuffed into the Red Death outfit, lol, but I doubt it. **

**TwilightSnowStar: I love scaring people. : ) I did read some of the stuff by Quiet, and it was highly entertaining. Like I said earlier, I'm rounding out my Phantom knowledge. ****Tis fun.**

**Music'sAngel: Yes, that's what I think too, but he's not listening to me. Thank you for the compliments, and I hope you enjoyed the next chapter. **

**Frodoschick: Hm, I suppose I should read it then, but I'm a bit short on cash. ****Thanks muches for the reading and reviewing. **

**Many thanks to LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath, PhanPhicPhantastic, Evangeline, and Isabell Black for the alerts and favs.**


	9. Phantom Hunt

Phantom Hunt

Only minutes earlier

Madame Giry gently stretched out an arm and squeezed Meg's shoulder. The poor child was frightened near to death with these strange events. Giry watched her daughter stare at the alarming number of policemen so close. She sent the girl a silent message with her eyes to say nothing, and Meg nodded at last, pale white face retreating into the hallway.

"Meg," Madame Giry followed her daughter out of the room. "These gentlemen require my services, so will you kindly let the girls know that there will be no evening practice?" Meg's eyes widened, but she curtsied anyway. Giry smiled then, attempting to comfort the bewildered girl. "I am certain this will only take an hour or two. Tell them to go ahead and do their stretching exercises."

"Yes, Mother," Meg replied, "What else shall I tell them?" _About this highly irregular occurrence_, her raised eyebrows seemed to ask. Yes, it was strange, but nothing was normal anymore. It likely never would be. Madame Giry narrowed her own hard gaze at Meg, brooking no silly questions tonight. The child would have to trust her mother. Meg dropped her face away and scurried down the hallway, disappearing around the far corner.

Monsieur Firmin raised his white-gloved hand. "Shall we get a wiggle on then?" he asked. The ballet mistress glared at him and led the way opposite of Meg's path, leading the large party down the side stairway and into the first cellar. Firmin and Andre pressed close to her, and she could feel their trembling through the thick layers of clothing. Why had these two fools come along? She partly understood _his _frustration with them now.

Speaking of the devil, Madame Giry hoped in her desperation that he had somehow gotten knowledge of the hunt, that she would not have to show these policemen to the lowest levels. Even the second level held a great amount of mystery; perhaps she could lead them to a dead end there. However, if the large bloodhounds sniffing and straining at her back smelled anything beyond that, she and her daughter might be held responsible. Madame Giry marveled at the way her rigid back straightened even more. She realized that it was a risk that she was ready to take; no more betraying of that pitiful wretch down beneath, no more kicks to the broken form.

"As you can see," she held her voice deceptively steady as she motioned to the rooms they passed through, "this level is used mostly for storage. We keep our costumes and props that are not in season here." They passed the recently stocked elephant from Hannibal, broken down into several chunks. Andre grimaced at the sight and wiped a thin layer of dust from its trunk. Madame Giry sensed his disapproval and snorted under her breath.

"This cellar is as far as most of us go," she lied to them cheerfully. "There is no current need for more space, as all our supplies fit here in the first cellar. We do some spring cleaning each year, to keep the props in working condition."

Firmin pushed on the nose of a large rooster mask and grinned at it. She watched him pick up the chicken mask and store it under his arm. Madame Giry sighed; they were hunting for a deadly opera ghost in a gloomy cellar in the dead of winter, and this manager was already thinking of the future masquerade. Such shallow, foolish men they were.

The gendarmes were less concerned with masks and elephants, and they led the dogs in a full circle of the cellar. The animals sniffed half-heartedly at the floors, but picked up no fresh scents. One of the beasts turned its head on Madame Giry, cocking the great snout as if to say, "You are hiding something."

Madame Giry shrugged away her overactive imagination. "The one you seek rarely comes here," she told the police chief. She saw him open his wide mouth to protest, and cut him off. "Yes, I said he comes from the first cellar, but there is another cellar beyond this one." He puffed his annoyance through the twitching moustache, and Madame Giry felt a surge of pleasure. Goodness, but she enjoyed baiting the arrogant fiend.

"Another cellar?" Firmin and Andre chimed in unison. "Why were we not told before purchasing this hole in the ground? Just how many cellars do we own?" Andre leaned over Madame Giry and sighed. "How long is this search really going to take?"

"There are three cellars in total," she lied once again, amazed at how easily her tongue covered the Phantom's tracks. _He _had better appreciate what she was doing… "The third cellar is large, extremely loud, and musty; the boilers are down there, providing the heat for this opera house. I cannot imagine anything living in that place. I believe what you seek revels in haunting the second cellar."

"Well, woman, take us there immediately," the police chief ordered. "We do not have time for this foolish prattle."

Madame Giry scowled at last, unable to hide her disgust with him. "If what I have to say next is foolish prattle, then I will retire from ballet and take up knitting." Firmin gasped behind her. "Allow me to prattle on and warn you…gentlemen…that the second cellar is part of his domain. Hence you will be facing his wrath for interrupting his cellars. Be ready for any tricks, and any traps."

"You said you barely knew him," Andre accused as they were led to the second stairwell. "How do you know all this?"

Madame Giry smirked. "I know it only by the fact that some have entered the second cellar and never returned." The managers' jaws dropped, their faces drained of blood, and Fimin started sweating. "Come now, are you brave, determined managers going to let such a fact stop you? After all, you are only pursuing a shadow and a ghost."

The Police Chief towered over her, large face bright red with anger. "A childish attempt to frighten us, Madame. We know from your own mouth that this beast is human, and we intend to track the creature down." _You are the beast,_ Madame Giry snarled silently back at him. "Lead the way down," he ordered.

"My attempt worked then?" she sniffed. "Making a woman descend a haunted cellar first hardly seems like the work of our esteemed Gendarmes." She grinned then with triumph as he huffed and puffed like a walrus. He turned to one of his men and pushed the unfortunate policeman down the stairs, the others close behind. The dogs and their trainers followed, then Madame Giry, and lastly the managers.

Firmin and Andre stared into the sudden gloom in obvious trepidation. They paused at the bottom of the steps and stared forward. "Can you get some torches lit up?" Andre demanded shortly, breath coming much too quickly for a calm man. Duly the mentioned torches flamed to life, and the flickering light glanced off the dark, dusty walls. Even Madame Giry had forgotten how foreboding these cellars were. The whole place was as silent as a tomb, but for the soft scratchings of the search party.

The dark hallway disappeared in the inky blackness ahead, and she could almost see fog rolling up from the floor. No, that was dust clouding from the moving feet. It rose to choke them and caused several of the men to cough. One of the men next to her abruptly leaned forward, pointing at the ground with his rifle. No words were necessary; they all saw the faint boot prints in the thick undisturbed dust ahead.

She leaned against a dark wall for support, suddenly feeling afraid and claustrophobic. This expedition was ill-fated, she could feel it. The Police Chief saw her pause and smiled unkindly, more a sneer than anything else. "Come now, my dear woman, do not be frightened. We will protect you from your ghost. Are you expecting him to be angry with you for betraying him?"

"Keep your tongue behind your teeth," she snapped, surprising him with her sharp anger. "You know not of what you speak. I am worried only for your men." He moved away from her and approached the men with the dogs. She heard him tell them to spread out and start searching, and her heart seized with fear. _Let him be away, please let him be away,_ she prayed.

They began to follow those ominous footprints further into the second cellar, straining their eyes and ears for the slightest action. Nothing moved. The Police Chief raised his torch and swung it from side to side. Here and there they could see piles of old draperies, plaster decorations, broken mannequins. The light played with their minds, creating shapes from the shadows that leapt out to strangle them.

"Sir!" One young policeman suddenly gasped, stopping from where he was furthest ahead. "Sir, the footprints just ended, sir." Madame Giry felt her heart thump harder in her chest, slamming against her sternum with frightening force. How just like him that was. Truly he was a ghost at times, and less human than wraith.

"Ended?" The Police Chief stepped forward next to the young man. "Impossible, footprints do not just end-" He froze, staring down the evidence, or lack thereof. That's impossible," he whispered again, suddenly sounding ten times smaller. He jerked the torch forward and scanned the floor ahead. Indeed, the prints had simply ended, leaving no trace of their quarry.

"Sir, these prints are older," the other policeman continued. "A small amount of dust has already gathered over them. Though we may have caused that by our own stirring." He inched forward. "I will look ahead to see if they start again." The Police Chief nodded, still staring in a stupor down at the tracks.

Madame Giry suddenly realized the nature of the tracks, and she filled with icy, paralyzing fear. They were not _his _tracks. "No, Monsieur! DO not go ahea-" She wanted to leap forward and pull the brave young man back, but she was too late.

With a scream of metal, the floor suddenly opened beneath the policeman's feet. He threw up his hands and the torch fell to the floor as he plunged into the black pit beneath the trap door. The quiet hallway exploded into shrieks of terror as he disappeared from sight, falling away with a clatter into the secretive smog. His screams faded away, and without warning, the trap door slammed shut once again.

Firmin and Andre shouted in horror as it closed on their comrade. The Police Chief staggered away from the treacherous pathway, dropping his own torch and passing his hand over his eyes and mouth. The others were crying out, backing away, falling to the floor and retching loudly in the sudden pandemonium. Madame Giry stood rooted to the spot, staring at the empty space that had filled a second earlier with a young man.

It had happened so quickly. One second he was there, a brave young man doing his duty, and the next he was gone, victim to the wrath of a defensive phantom. She wondered if the man had a family, a sister, a son…? Madame Giry slowly met the eyes of the two managers. "Are you ready to go on?" she whispered. "Are you ready for more of this?"

"We have to go down there!" The Police Chief raged. "I am not going to-"

Madame Giry leaned close to the large man. "You will never get him back. The pits he creates are endless, and your man is gone. Gone, Monsieur." Andre trembled behind her, wringing his hands around his little red handkerchief. He plainly wanted nothing more than to go back to the surface. Firmin looked ready to loose his dinner. His small face was turning an eerie shade of green in the torchlight, arms crossed over his stomach.

The Police Chief stared down at her. "We will go on," he stated, brow twisting in anger. "We will find this fiend and slaughter it. Let the dogs go first to determine the safety," he called back to his men, and the trainers moved forwards. They had no choice but to go on. As each person carefully sidestepped the trap door and moved down the dark, silent halls, Madame Giry felt her time, and Cellar Two, running out.

It was perfect coincidence when one of the dogs began to bark, scratching at the door to the cellar's last, unsearched room.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Raoul paced under the dark evening sky of Paris, brushing his half-frozen hands against each other for warmth. He stood with six policemen at his side, positioned across from the west corner of the opera house. Similar groups lurked at the other three corners as they watched for their prey. The young Vicomte was determined to end this mystery Phantom's career for once and for all. As the Police Chief searched the insides and flushed the Phantom out, Raoul was ready to receive the creature.

Brrr, but it was cold tonight. He blew into his gloved hands and paced up and down the empty street. Very few citizens were out and about this evening, and he could not blame them. If it were not for Christine, he would be safe and warm in his own bed, beside a roaring fire and with a warm drink in his hand. _And she could be beside me, reading some flighty__ female__ novel and being the perfect, wonderful wife…_ Raoul forced himself to quit daydreaming.

Tonight, he had business; tonight, he was securing Christine's safety. Raoul turned on his boot and addressed the policeman next to him. "I am going to check the north corner. You come with me, and the rest of you men, keep your eyes open and watch for a man in a mask. If you value your jobs, do not let him escape." They nodded, breaths chuffing in visible clouds all around him.

He and the other man strode away from the group, squishing softly through the snow, pressing up against the rough edges of the Opera House to escape the vicious wind. Raoul could see the distant torchlight of the north group, but he stopped and pulled the other man into the alley and against the wall. "Hear that?" he hissed, and the muffled sound of hoof beats reached their ears.

The policeman tensed beside him. "Is it…him, sir?"

"Silence," Raoul pushed his head down, and peered down the alley way. He had been told that this street led to the Opera House stables, and began to wonder. Little time passed before he spotted a dark silhouette of horse and rider, cloaked in night and moving as one. Raoul caught a brief glimpse of the man's face, and was startled to see nothing more than a shapeless black expanse. A mask… _Dear…I am not thinking straight…help us, it is him… _

Raoul was strangely and suddenly seized by a protective rage. This creature had hurt his Christine, it had frightened her, and Raoul would never stand by to watch. He stepped forward in front of the approaching horse and gripped the bridle, ripping it from the startled creature's claws. Raoul jerked the black stallion's head to the right, spinning the large horse in a tight circle.

The thing atop the horse let out a snarl of rage and drove its boots into the horse's sides. The stallion reared up, throwing Raoul against the side of the Opera House. He felt his face connect with the wet snow and lurched to his feet again, just in time to see the policeman swing his rifle at the figure. "Help us!" Raoul screamed into the night. "He's here!"

A strange whistling sound filled the air, and he watched in horror as the policeman dropped his rifle and threw his hands to his throat. A long thin cord was tight against the skin of his neck, pulling tight with a sharp, disgusting crack. Then the cord was gone and the body was lifelessly slipping to the ground. Raoul stared, frozen to the earth for a terrible second, before thrusting himself at the Phantom.

They collided without pause and both fell from the horse to the powdery ground. The creature fighting him let out a bitter scream and slammed him up against the wall. Raoul saw stars and brilliant flashes of white before he was tossed against the other wall. He had no practice fighting with his fists, as in a common brawl, but this was no common brawl anyway. Every move the creature made he was helpless to stop.

The black mask hovered above him, glowing yellow eye glaring down at him. Raoul screamed at the sight. It really was a devil! A fist landed squarely on his own left eye, and the world went dark briefly. He heard distant shouting, and felt an unnatural doubt. What could men do against such a creature of the night? He felt gloved hands wrap around his tender neck and begin squeezing. "Help…" he wheezed. "Stop…Christine!"

The pressure was instantly gone from his neck, but he felt the hands seize his arms and throw him further into the alley. Raoul landed in a bruised heap in the snow, and he heard the stallion gallop away. Someone fired a gun, but he was too busy trying to breath to care who. He hoped the bullet had flown straight and true, he really did. "Out here! The Phantom is out here! He has fled the Opera House!" Hands were around Raoul's shoulders now, lifting him up and patting him down. "Get him inside," someone ordered, and Raoul was happy to oblige. If only his feet were working…

"Make sure she is safe," he gasped at a passing policeman, grasping at the man's lapels. "Make sure Christine is safe from him." The world started spinning again.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Sir! Sir! Come quick!" Madame Giry and her party turned to see a policeman dashing down the cellar's hallway. "They have run into the Phantom! He is outside and was trying to flee on horseback. The Vicomte tried to stop him, sir! He has been hurt."

The Police Chief scowled. "Back to the top," he ordered. "We will go after him. Get some of the horses from the stables and meet us there." The other man saluted and hurried away. Madame Giry felt the chief's eyes on her, and she met his angry gaze. "We will continue this, Madame," he promised.

She nodded, too drained, relieved, and worried to argue. _Get away, my old friend, please get away. _

**Since I've been called cruel so many times, I figured I'd leave this one on a cliffhanger. Well, I hope that was sufficiently exciting for all you fun folks out there. : ) ****It**** was for me. Apologies for any grammatical errors, though once again I read it over as much as I can stand it before submitting. Thanks for reading and reviewing, and it may be a bit before I can update again; I'm claiming college sanctuary once again. ; ) **

**TwilightSnowStar****: I'm glad you think I'm improving. I'm always striving for that sort of thing. : ) Hmm, I looked Stine up…author of Goosebumps? ****Lol****, how our perceptions change.**** Thanks for reviewing; I hope you liked the latest.**

**Elphie89: Yes, the hunt has truly begun now. Will our hero/antihero/tragic hero/villain/misunderstood genius make it? Tune in next time. ****: ) Thanks for reviewing.**

**VHunter07: I did want to write an original storyline, hence the reason I wrote at all. I'm glad you liked it. Yes, ****Raoul**** isn't the least bit evil, and I'm still not sure where Christine will end up after this mess. Poor boy, he tries so hard, bless his little heart****… ;**** ) Thanks for reviewing. **

**Venomlover****: Yes, I'm finding that out. The character of Erik is rather fascinating. I wish I could find the Kay Phantom book without paying an arm and a leg though. Yep, the Phantom had to leave, or is trying to anyway. Thanks for reviewing. **

**Laal**** Ratty: Yes, hopefully the Persian can calm her down, poor thing. ****More Christine and Persian coming up next chapter with slightly more dignified introductions.**** Thanks for reviewing. **

**Liana ****Lantean****: I hope to continue to the story's end, and thanks for reviewing. I'm glad you've liked it so far. **

**FeatherKeeper****: Howdy! ****: ) Good point that you've pointed out.**** I looked back at it and realized it is startlingly modern. I'll put a threatening wax-sealed note in my editor's box. **** That should get it changed in the original copy, which is constantly having stuff added to it. I'm glad the flavor is authentic; ****tis**** what I'm striving for. ****And definitely no sappy Phantom.**** I like the insane, troubled, third-person-****referencer**** Erik of ****Leroux**** much better. (Don't tell anyone, but yes, I love the cape…)**

**And thanks to Flute ****Damioh**** for the story ****fav**


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